


Red Hair and a Hand-Me-Down Robe

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family Secrets, Gen, Pureblood Hermione Granger, Romance, Slow Burn, UST, canon-divergent AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13966905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: *Canon-Divergent AU* An abandoned church, an ancient potion recipe, and a feud that runs deeper than anyone realizes. Hermione Granger is about to learn a very jarring truth about herself, and find solace in the one place she never thought possible. *A pure-blood!Hermione story with a twist*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Canon-Divergent AU [another 'by the seat of my pants' fic, so we'll find out where this is going together!]
> 
> 2) There might be few "ew, and oh no!" moments as the storyline sorts itself out, just bear with me. At this point, you either trust me or you don't.
> 
> 3) Blame for this one goes to Canimal.
> 
> Lucius Malfoy Fancast: Alexander Skarsgard (if Jason Isaacs is the 'only Lucius' for you, then you're welcome to imagine him instead, you don't need to tell me ;) )
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.

  

**Chapter One**

Days had passed, and yet, Hermione could not stop thinking about it. How strange. The War, all that battle, Voldemort finally— _finally_ —dead and gone. And all she really seemed able to think about, all her mind tripped back to, was the way she had shied away from Ron when he'd tried to kiss her.

A moment she'd thought she'd wanted, and yet . . . . Chewing at her bottom lip, she shook her head. And yet, at the last possible second, there'd been some twisting in her gut telling her something was wrong.

The look of hurt in his eyes, the pained way he said her name as she practically tore herself out of his arms played in the back of her mind, over and over.

It didn't help at all that they where about to attend Narcissa Malfoy's funeral;  _they_  being the surviving members of the Order, of course. She didn't think they belonged there, but the circumstances surrounding her death—Voldemort so brutally taking her life on the battlefield when he realized she'd lied to him about Harry surviving their confrontation—had seen to the witch being declared a war hero. She agreed with the declaration, but she still wasn't so certain their presence would be appropriate.

Draco had been miserable, not even enough energy to muster an insult to toss her way when their paths crossed during the cleanup efforts. Lucius Malfoy hadn't been seen, at all. Rumor had it that he'd shut himself up in Malfoy Manor, unable to face the world since his wife's death.

Hermione rolled her eyes, swallowing hard as she smoothed her fingers over her black pencil skirt. That last bit was rumor mill melodrama, but she couldn't say she blamed him if that  _were_ the truth.

She was so caught up in her thoughts, she jumped at the knock on her door.

"Hermione, c'mon."

Shoulders drooping, she met her reflection's gaze. She knew there was no way Ron was going to be all right with seeing her—she was strangely detached from the incident, if she were being wholly honest with herself—but she understood she had an obligation to her friends, and yes, even to the Malfoys for their loss, and for Narcissa Malfoy's sacrifice.

Between reconstruction efforts and funerals, it was amazing any of them had time to breathe, let alone gossip.

"Coming, Harry."

Giving the mirror one final nod, she turned on her heel and started toward the door.

* * *

The entire Order, indeed, every attendee at the funeral sat, stunned. Though, no one quite so much as Draco. The somber ceremony had drawn to a close, and yet . . . .

Lucius Malfoy had never shown.

His son shifted and looked about, appearing legitimately uncomfortable at his own mother's funeral. How sad, he was the one with the most right to be there. But, as time wore on, and it became more painfully obvious that Lucius was not coming, Draco's expression alternated between anger and concern.

"Someone should go talk to him," Harry said with a nod, glancing over his shoulder at the pale-haired wizard. "It's not right that he's alone like this."

The elder members of the Order standing with them started to discuss among themselves who it should be, when Ron piped up . . . in a way that only made the situation more painful.

"Well, I'm not going to do it."

Everyone seemed to turn and look at him, then.

Shifting in place, he shrugged. "Oy, don't look at me like that. I  _mean_  I wouldn't know what to say and would probably only make him feel worse."

Hermione could only sigh, nodding. She might be on _his_  bad side right now, but they were still friends. She  _had_  to keep in mind that he wasn't a bad person simply because something in how she felt about him had changed.

But they really shouldn't let anyone else go, either. They were hardly friends with Draco, but at least they were his peers. That might mean something.

"I'll go." She ignored the flicker of irritation across Ron's face at her offer.

"Hermione," Harry said with a sigh as he shook his head. "Maybe it should be—"

"No, no. You should stay with the Weasleys, okay?"

Biting his lip, Harry forced a gulp down his throat as he nodded. He'd just been through Tonks and Remus' joint funeral yesterday, tomorrow was Fred's, and he was such a part of the Weasley family that it was only right he be with them as they prepared for that. So much more a part than she was, it seemed, especially now.

She looked from Harry to Ron, and back, before nodding. "Really, it's okay. You two have enough to deal with."

She didn't give them time to argue with her, pivoting on her heel and making a beeline for Draco.

Though it felt like there were a thousand gazes pressing on her as she walked, Hermione knew that was only her imagination. Everyone had a headful of their own woes, and that they stood in an ancient and storied Wizarding churchyard didn't make a difference, except in the back of her thoughts, where she had to remind herself that ghosts didn't linger by their graves.

There was no reason for her to feel  _anything_  here, and yet . . . .

She turned her head to glance over her shoulder at the timeworn headstones and aged mausoleums. And yet, she could not shake the feeling something was trying to get her attention.

Draco's voice drew her from her reverie.

"So, you're the one they nominated to come babysit me, Granger?"

She hadn't even realized she'd drawn to a halt near enough to where he sat that her presence—and her destination—was unmistakable. In all their years sharing classes, and arguing, and lecturing each other, she'd never heard his voice sound as it did just now.

Flat. Lifeless. Like there was nothing left in him, and maybe there wasn't.

Meeting his gaze, she offered a small, tightlipped smile. "Actually, I volunteered. I can't imagine how you're feeling right now."

"You're right, you can't."

Her expression faltered at how matter-of-factly he spoke. "I . . . ."

"Sorry," he said, shrugging. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to go on. "I know you mean well."

Sighing, she took a seat beside him. She followed the direction of his gaze with her own, so that they both stared out into the trees at the back of the old church.

"I'm really sorry about your mother, Draco."

His shoulders drooped as he nodded. "Thanks."

For a few impossibly awkward moments, they sat in silence. Yet, the longer they were quiet, the more she realized it was not Draco making her feel awkward. It was that sense, again, that something was trying to get her attention.

How utterly ridiculous.

"I couldn't help but notice," she said, as much to distract herself as to get to the heart of her former classmate's feelings, "that you looked worried."

Draco turned his head, but didn't respond until she turned hers, as well, meeting his gaze. "It's my father; he was  _supposed_  to be here. I knew he was having a hard time of it, but . . . ."

She shifted in her seat to face him fully. "Draco? Do you . . . do you think he could've done something to himself?"

He uttered a mirthless laugh. "I . . . . Honestly? Considering where I am right at this moment, I'm a little afraid to find out if it could be true. I—I don't think I could handle it if I went home and—" With another humorless chuckle, he sniffled loudly. "I can't even say it."

The witch frowned, watching his face as she considered the situation. She glanced back at her friends and then returned her attention to the young man in front of her. "If you're really worried, you can't just leave it. You know that."

He met her gaze, again, holding it in silence. There was a horribly obvious sheen in his grey eyes that refused to budge.

"What if I went with you?"

His brow furrowed, a look overcoming his features as though he had lost his ability to comprehend English. After a strained heartbeat, he shook his head. "You'd do that?"

Pursing her lips in a thoughtful expression, she patted his shoulder. "Well, it's not exactly the most pleasant notion for me, either, after my  _last_ visit to your family's home. But, I'm afraid you'll find I'm compassionate to fault."

He let out a genuine snicker, looking about to see that most of the other attendees had already left, or were drifting toward the exit. "Suppose I can't put this off much longer. All right, have it your way, Granger. Let's go."

* * *

"He really hasn't spoken a word?" Hermione asked, after they'd Apparated to the boundary of the manor grounds and had started up the long, hedge-lined path.

She couldn't say she'd forgotten how intimidating an edifice the ancestral Malfoy family home was—because, indeed, there was  _no_  forgetting those age-dulled, white stone walls, nor the steepled roofs. She had, however, managed to put out of her head the sinking feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach at returning here.

But now, as they walked toward those front steps, it washed back over her. And she had to talk to keep herself from panicking.

"No." Draco sighed, so caught up in his own worries, he didn't notice her sudden fidgeting. "I had to handle the, um, the arrangements, myself. Well, not wholly, Shacklebolt  _did_ help, but . . . it's not really the same. When I asked if he was coming, he nodded. Looked me right in the eye— for the  _first_  time since the day she died—and nodded."

"You're right to be concerned," she said, forcing a comforting grin. If she focused on precisely why they were here, she'd be fine. She knew it.

She had no idea what else to say. He'd had to arrange Narcissa's funeral, himself? At least Harry'd had Andromeda Tonks, and Molly and Arthur to help him. Draco'd mentioned Kingsley, sure, but they were far from family, so it really  _wasn't_  the same.

When they reached the foot of the front steps, Hermione froze. Staring up at the massive structure, it seemed she even stopped breathing for a moment.

Realizing he was starting the climb by himself, he turned back to look at her. At the blank, gaping expression on her face, he let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

"Maybe this was a bad idea," he said, trying to be gentle—which was not exactly his strong suit.

At his words, Hermione gave herself a shake. She was being ridiculous. She needed to face her fear. Nothing in this house could harm her, anymore, and the sooner she walked through its halls and came out unscathed, the sooner she could put Bellatrix's horrific actions behind her.

"No, no. It's fine, really. I said I'd come with you to check on your father, and I  _meant_  it."

He almost smiled at that, nodding. "Thank you."

Snickering, she shouldered past him and continued up toward the double doors. "You're welcome. Now, get a move on, Malfoy."

Despite the near-cheerfulness of her words, they went on in silence. Up the wide, stone steps, through the doors and across the grand foyer.

The entire house was silent, and they broke off from each other, deciding to each take a floor. In an unexpected turn, Draco was sensitive enough to volunteer to check the first floor, himself, so Hermione could avoid the drawing room. They called out to Lucius as they went from room to room.

She was unfortunate enough to be the one to find him.

In a room that she thought must've been someplace Narcissa kept as her own space, given the delicate feminine touch to the furnishings and decorating choices, Lucius Malfoy was on the floor, half-slumped against a plush, deep-purple ottoman.

"Draco, he's up here!"

The elder Malfoy started at her shout, but didn't open his eyes, even as she hurried across the room, the  _clicking_  of her heeled footfalls incredibly loud against the finely polished, hardwood floor. She dropped down beside him, checking his pulse. Yes, he'd just appeared to jump a bit, but that could be her imagination, or—as she feared when she saw him like this—he might've downed something harmful that had him half-dead.

But the thrum of his pulse was strong and steady beneath the press of her fingertips. Too late she realized the scent wafting off him was enough to make her eyes water.

No wonder he was so out of it.

She could hear Draco's footsteps thundering up the staircase toward them, now.

Gripping her hands into the front of Lucius' robes, she shook him gently. "Mr. Malfoy? Mr. Malfoy!"

"Hmm?" He blinked open his eyes in a weary gesture. The shock of seeing the Muggle-born witch, of all people, in  _this_  house, jarred loose the first actual words he'd spoken in nearly a week. "Miss Granger?"

Draco dashed into the room just in time to hear his father say her name. "He's talking?" His question came out in a rushed, breathless whisper.

Even as the older Malfoy's currently fuzzy, grey-eyed gaze locked on her, she said, "I think it's the surprise of  _who_  he woke up to find himself staring at."

Lucius went on, seeming unaware that the other two occupants of the room had spoken. "I never expected to see  _you_  here, again."

"Yes, well, I never expected to find  _you_  smelling like a winery." She ignored his responding chuckle as she grabbed one of his wrists. Turning to look up at Draco as she pulled Lucius' arm around her shoulders, she said, "Help me get him downstairs."

Though, he moved to follow her instruction, he asked as they pulled Lucius to his feet between them, "Why downstairs?"

"We're taking him to the kitchen. I don't know how you wizards do it, but the Muggle remedy for a situation like this is black coffee. Strong and lots of it."

"Your ways are  _so_  odd," the younger Malfoy said with a mildly exasperated shake of his head. But if this worked, who was he to argue?

* * *

Later that evening, after Lucius had sobered up and Hermione had left, Draco once more found his father in Mother's private study. He seemed in much better spirits than he had in days, and though Draco knew it was probably too much to hope for, he could not help but wonder if this was the start of Father coping with their loss.

In his nightclothes and dressing gown, a freshly bathed—and thank the  _Lord_  for that, it was about bloody time—Lucius Malfoy sat on the floor before an open trunk. Draco crept into the room to peek over his father's shoulder.

"Are those photo albums?"

Lucius looked up, a sad half-smile curving his lips as he nodded. "I have not looked at these in a  _very_  long while. Too many memories. Your mother refused to dispose of them, so she locked them in here."

He went on as Draco sat down beside him and started looking over the pages. "I thought it unwise, given the searches the Ministry had been conducting a few years ago, but she insisted. Created a special lock, and everything." Lucius lifted his hand, showing a gash across one finger. "Only Malfoy blood could open it."

"How old are these?" Draco asked with a grin, noting how young his parents looked—his age, if he wasn't mistaken.

"The majority of them were taken in the span between my graduation from Hogwarts, and the end of the First War." Snickering quietly, he pointed to one of a very pregnant Narcissa. "There  _you_  are."

Laughing in spite of himself, Draco traced the tip of his finger over his mother's face. "She really was beautiful."

"Yes, she was."

"Father, promise me something?"

Lucius' brow furrowed, there was a tremor in Draco's voice that he hated hearing. Turning his head to meet his son's gaze, his shoulders slumped as he saw tears there. "Anything."

"I know I'm already grown, but . . . ." Draco frowned, one stupid little droplet breaking free to roll down his cheek. "Promise me you won't let me forget her, okay?"

Clamping a hand around the back of his son's neck, Lucius pulled him close, hugging him loosely. "Of course. Maybe we should put these away, for now."

"No, no." Sniffling, Draco sat up straight, once more. "I like looking at them."

"All right."

For several moments, the Malfoy wizards sat in silence. They turned page after page, watching snippets of time drift past.

"Huh." Draco narrowed his eyes, picking up one of the books and carefully scanning one photo, in particular. "I must be tired, I'm starting to see things."

His brows pinching together, Lucius looked up. "What do you mean?"

Holding the book out to his father, he pointed to an attractive brunette witch, standing beside his mother. "Who's that?"

"Ah," Lucius took the album, nodding. "Lisette Rosier, Evan's younger sister."

"She looks like Granger. Very much so, in fact."

Lucius shook his head in disbelief. Yet, the chuckle he uttered died on his lips as he looked closer. He'd not thought of Lisette Rosier in nearly twenty years, but now that he was examining her image, the resemblance between her and the Muggle-born witch who had just helped sober him up  _was_  uncanny. Except her hair. Lisette Rosier's hair hung in sleek, dark brown waves, not the wild, barely-controlled mane of Hermione Granger.

But the thought only brought his gaze to the man standing proudly on the other side of the petite, gracefully-posed woman.

"I'd accuse Granger of employing time magic, if not for the hair." Making the realization barely a moment after his father, Draco pointed to the very same wizard. "But looks an  _awful_  lot like his, except for the color. That's Weasley-red, if ever I've seen it," he said with a laugh.

Though he knew Draco meant that as a joke, Lucius could only nod. "That's because he  _was_  a Weasley. Arthur's brother, Alistair. He was the  _only_ member of that family to divest himself of the title 'blood-traitor'."

"I wasn't even aware Weasle-bee, Senior had a brother."

Lucius began turning the pages, clearly searching for something. "That was because Alistair disowned  _them_. He, unlike the rest of his clan, was fiercely proud of his Wizarding blood; turned his back on their fascination with Muggle society. Even made an unorthodox decision to take on  _her_ family name when they were wed. Anything to distance himself from the Weasleys."

Draco put a hand to his head, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. The resemblance between Granger and Evan Rosier's sister was clearly a coincidence, it  _had_  to be.

"Sadly, both Lisette and Alistair lost their lives at the end of the First War." Finding what he was looking for, Lucius nodded to himself and held out the album. The image he indicated was of the Rosiers and the Malfoys. Evan looking ever the proud uncle, there was also a little girl, perhaps a year old at the time. She had Alistair's wild, fiery locks, and there was no mistaking the pale-haired infant in Narcissa's arms.

"Who's the girl?"

"Lisette and Alistair's daughter, of course. When they died, arrangements were put in place to send her to relatives in France. Narcissa didn't want to let her go, but she knew they wanted their daughter as far from the Weasleys as possible."

Draco's brow furrowed as he stared  _hard_  at that picture. That hair, other than the color being so different . . . .

"Her name was . . . Jean-Anne? Yes, that's it. Jean-Anne Rosier."

He jumped as his son slammed the book shut. "Draco? Honestly! What are you—?"

The younger wizard bounced up to his feet. Before he even realized he was moving, he broke into a frantic pacing. No, no, no. There was  _no_  way what he was thinking could be possible!

"Hermione Granger's middle name is  _Jean_ , father! I—I know this  _has_  to all be some coincidence, but the face, the name, the  _hair?!_ "

His grey eyes wide with disbelief, Lucius flipped back through the album to the photograph of the Rosiers with their daughter. Lisette's face, Alistair's hair.

The same name . . . .

"This  _can't_  be."

"Okay, okay. I know what to do." Draco came to a halt, nodding sharply. "If  _anyone_  would want to help us disprove the possibility, it would be Granger, herself. I'll owl her first thing in the morning and ask her to come back here. She'll help us sort this all out."

"She'll think we are completely mad; she'll never agree. I know if someone wanted to suggest to me the possibility  _I_  was a Muggle-born, I would think they were positively batty."

Shrugging, the younger Malfoy sighed, Father had a point. "I'll tell her I need help with you, again."

Lucius arched a brow, his expression dubious. "And  _that_  will work?"

"Trust me, Father." Draco echoed the sentiment she'd stated earlier, that he now understood had been completely true. "Hermione Granger is compassionate to a fault."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione frowned at the letter. Swallowing hard, she turned her head, checking the time on the clock. It was still quite early, the very persistent owl having woken her with its tapping at her window.

_Granger,_

_I know we've never been on what anyone would call good terms, and I'd never think to consider you someone I can turn to, but after how you helped yesterday, I've no real choice but to admit I was wrong on that second part._

_It's Father. I'm sorry to trouble you with this, I know you've got more pressing matters today. I'm almost certain he didn't sleep a wink last night, and think he might've hit the wine cellar after I'd gone to bed._

_Promise not to keep you long, but could you please just come for a little while and help me get him sorted?_

_~Draco Malfoy_

Sure, she thought, looking it over, once more. He wrote out his full name, but still, all she got from him was  _Granger_.

She knew if she were late to Fred's funeral, Harry and the Weasleys might never forgive her. If they learned she was late because she was helping Draco and Lucius, they'd  _definitely_  never forgive her.

Returning her attention to the clock, she thought over Lucius Malfoy's state last night. He'd been an utter mess, and though she'd never imagined him someone she could pity . . . . Well, for whatever else mattered, she couldn't say that anymore.

If Draco felt like he couldn't handle his father's situation on his own—and really, he shouldn't have to, what with still suffering the loss of his mother—and had reached out to her? That could not be good.

"Oh, bloody hell. Why am I explaining this to myself?"

Setting down the letter, she went about washing up and dressing. There were still hours until Fred's funeral. She had plenty of time to go help Draco with his father.

* * *

She had to remind herself that she had until the mid-afternoon as she popped into existence at the boundary of the Manor grounds, in nearly the same spot as she'd appeared with Draco, yesterday. The long walkway to the grand house made her feel like she should run to save time. But not in these ruddy heels.

Sighing, she hung her head as she walked. She'd been absolutely fine yesterday after leaving here. No flashbacks, no nightmares . . . .

She knew not everyone suffered post-traumatic stress, because everyone was different, but she'd really thought Bellatrix was going to kill her that day. Although, maybe she hadn't. Perhaps she'd had hope, deep down, that somehow, she was going to get out of it.

_Perhaps_  that hope had shielded her from accepting that she could've died then.

She gave her head a shake and halted in her tracks. She'd been so caught up in her thoughts, she'd not realized that she was already at the wide staircase that led up to those enormous double doors.

With a deep breath, she gave herself a shake and started up the steps. The click of her heels against the stone seemed so much louder to her now than it had yesterday. She shrugged that off—it only felt so because yesterday she'd been preoccupied, and now, she had nothing else to focus on.

As she lifted her hand to knock, one of the doors swung open. She gave a start at finding a wide-eyed, very tired looking Draco standing there.

"Oh—oh. There you are, Granger. I . . . I didn't know if you'd come."

Her brows shot up as she followed him inside. Why on  _earth_  was he so jumpy? "You seemed pretty desperate in your letter this morning. I didn't have the heart to refuse."

"Well, yes. Thank you for that." Draco nodded, more nervous about the witch drawing her wand on them when she realized she'd been duped than concerned she'd be upset with him for lying to get her back here. "Father is right through there."

He led her to a first floor study—clearly Lucius', by the décor—and gestured for her to step inside ahead of him.

Hermione halted immediately past the threshold. Her gaze locked with Lucius Malfoy's. His grey eyes were clear, he looked perfectly neat and ordered, certainly not anywhere near how he had appeared yesterday. She ignored the collection of thick books, with finely crafted leather covers, spread out in front of him. Oh, and how difficult  _that_  was for her.

He was even calmly sipping his morning tea as he stared back at her.

Setting his cup against its saucer, he gave that tight-lipped Malfoy smile. "Miss Granger, how good of you to join us. If you'd please take a seat."

Her chestnut eyes shooting wide, she looked over her shoulder at Draco—Draco who, now, would not meet her gaze—and then back at Lucius.

Swallowing hard, she turned her attention to the armchair before Lucius' desk, but did not draw any closer. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"

That chillingly patient expression, the one she thought must certainly be a Malfoy trait, overcame the elder wizard's features as he held her gaze. "The subterfuge was not Draco's fault. Well, not wholly."

"Thank you for  _that_ , Father," Draco said, his tone wary as he eyed the witch's wand arm.

Though, he gave a start when he looked up. Both Granger and his father had shifted their focus to him. Her shoulders were drooped in an exasperated air, and Father's brows had crept up his forehead ever so slightly.

Forcing a gulp down his throat, he looked from one to the other, and back. "Sorry."

Hermione let out a sigh and then pivoted back to face Lucius. "I believe you were in the process of explaining whatever this . . .  _situation_  is, Mr. Malfoy?"

"If you would, please, have a seat?"

The witch glowered, choosing to ignore the chair he once more indicated with a sweep of his long-fingered hand. "I can hear you just as well from a standing position."

Again, with that chilly, strangely patient expression, he said, "Indulge me."

Biting into her bottom lip, she shook her head. With slow, visibly grudging steps, she crossed the study floor and rounded the chair. Her unhappy gaze locked on his all the while, she moved to drop herself into the seat.

After a moment of watching her in silence, Lucius nodded. "Well, I suppose there's no other way to go about this than to simply broach the subject, right off."

Her brows pinched together as she turned her head. Draco was sinking into the armchair beside hers, his expression so uncomfortable, she didn't have words to describe it.

When she turned her head forward, it was to see Lucius picking up one of the thick books. She realized, then, from the texture of the pages, that it was a photo album.

She suddenly had a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "What _is_  this about?"

Turning the book and holding it across the desk so she could see the pictures with their cyclical actions, he pointed to the witch with the sleek, dark-brown curls. "Do you think you can explain your resemblance to this woman, here?"

Hermione uttered a scoffing sound as she shifted closer in her seat. Leaning near enough that the tip of her nose was all but pressed to the images, that sinking feeling morphed into an icy churning.

Swallowing hard, she said, "I don't understand."

Lucius shrugged, observing her expression. "Draco and I were hoping you might be able to disprove a theory for us."

Breathing out an airy, nervous giggle, the witch looked up at him. Shaking her head, she could only stare into huis eyes as she tried to comprehend what she was being shown. "I hope you're not suggesting I've meddled with time, Mr. Malfoy." She was aware the Time Turners had all been knocked into inaccessible, infinite loops by the chaos of their battle in the Department of Mysteries. Of course, he probably had no reason to think she possessed that knowledge, but he would know, and that was enough to stymie any such accusation.

A faint smirk curved one corner of his mouth upward. He pulled back the book, flipping to another image.

Holding it out, once more, he said, "I am, of course, suggesting no such thing. However, I am wondering if you might not, somehow, be her?"

Hermione watched in something like dread as he tapped his finger over the picture of a little girl. Wild hair, perhaps a year old, playing idly with the hem of the dress robes worn by the witch who looked so like her.

"I . . . no . . . that's not . . . ." She frowned, shaking her head. The tip of her nose stung and she folded her lips inward as she tried to collect her thoughts. "Who is she?"

"The daughter of Lisette and Alistair Rosier. Old friends, lost at the end of the First Wizarding War." Again, Lucius scrutinized her expression as he spoke. "She was two at the time. Disappeared, nearly . . . sixteen years ago. That would make her eighteen, now. You are eighteen, are you not, Miss Granger?"

"Lots of witches in England are eighteen, Mr. Malfoy."

"I suppose you're correct." Lucius shrugged, once more. "I suppose it is a bit ridiculous to assume you could be Jean-Anne Rozier, is it not?"

The color drained from her face as she echoed, "Jean—Jean-Anne?"

"Many girls might be her. Perhaps assuming she's even still in England is a bit of a stretch." He pulled back the album and closed it. "But, wait . . . . Draco mentioned that your middle name is Jean? Or was he mistaken?"

"No, he . . . he wasn't." She couldn't feel her fingertips. She knew what this was. Flight response—the energy draining from her other extremities and being forced into her legs so she could flee this situation.

It was only her middle name. That could be coincidence, too, couldn't it?

But . . . if it was only a coincidence, why did she have such clear recollection of her parents calling her Hermione-Jean when she was a toddler? Even now, if she concentrated, she could hear their voices uttering those strangely combined syllables.

She had never considered it before. Never before thought about the way that eventually, one day, they simply stopped adding the Jean. Could they have been saying both names together like that to get her accustomed to being called Hermione, instead?

Like when trying to get a bloody dog adjusted to a new name?!

No. No! That was ridiculous! Her parents would've told her if she had been adopted. They were close, they  _loved_  her. And how would a Muggle couple even end up with a pure-blood baby?

As she considered all this, she was certain she could feel the Malfoys' gazes weighing on her, like some great, heavy object.

"So what?" She forced out the question, unable to account for the sudden sandpaper feeling in her throat. "These are all just . . . coincidences. Nothing more."

"We rather thought you might say that," Lucius informed her, trying not to let her very apparent shock garner too much sympathy from him. "But that is good. We were hoping you would be willing to help us disprove the possibility that you could be Jean-Anne Rosier."

Hermione blinked rapidly a few times, shaking her head. Averting her gaze from his, she shot to her feet. "There's . . . there's no need to disprove any possibilities, because I'm  _not_  her. I don't appreciate that you Malfoys played on my sympathies to get me here under false pretenses." She forced herself to look at Draco, then at Lucius as she blindly backpedaled around the chair and toward the study door. "You are  _never_  to ask me to this house, again. Right now I'm so angry with both of you, if you were set ablaze, I wouldn't spit on you to dowse the flames!"

Lucius and Draco both watched, stunned as she whirled on her heel and stormed from the room. Her angry, heel-clicking stomps as she made her way through the house seemed to echo back to them. As did the sound of her slamming the double doors behind her as she exited.

In the following silence, Draco turned in his seat to look at his father. Lucius' brows were high on his forehead, his expression carefully blank.

The elder Malfoy cleared his throat and nodded. "I can see now why you've always been a little fearful of that woman."

Draco nodded. But then noticed the amused glint in father's eyes. "What?"

Snickering, Lucius shook his head, dropping his gaze back to the pictures before him. "Well, you did not know the Rosiers, but I was simply thinking that if she  _is_  Lisette's daughter, that would certainly explain her temper."

* * *

All day she'd been in a fog. It wasn't fair! Fred Weasley had been her friend. She should be focused on mourning him—not that that would've made Fred especially happy, he'd probably prefer if his funeral consisted of attendees trading stories of pranks he'd played during his time at Hogwarts. Regardless, for her own peace of mind, she wished she had nothing more in her head than the opportunity to bid her friend goodbye.

Damn those ruddy Malfoys. Even now, they only cared about themselves.

She didn't even know why she was so vexed about this. There was no way what they suggested was possible.

So, then, why couldn't she put it out of her mind?

All through the funeral, she fidgeted with the edges of her blouse sleeves. She could barely make eye-contact with anyone, as though that ridiculous suggestion about her parentage could be read from her gaze.

She vaguely recalled participating in conversations when she'd arrived at The Burrow to set off to the funeral with Harry and the Weasleys. She knew her responses had been minimal, yet now, as things drew to a close, and mourners were paying their respects to the Weasleys before departing, she could not remember a thing she'd said if the whole of Wizarding Britain had depended on it.

"Hermione!"

Startled, she snapped her gaze up to lock on Harry's. "Hmm?"

He and Ginny exchanged a glance. "I called your name four times, but you're in your own little world. Are you okay?"

Blinking hard, she gave her head a shake. "Um, yeah. Yes, I'm okay. I just . . . ." She couldn't lie to Harry, not about this. But she also knew she could not possibly think to tell him what was actually on her mind.

She settled for another vague response that could really be about anything without actually lying. "Sorry. It's just a lot to process."

"I get it." He nodded, offering a smile that was both sad and understanding. "Are you coming back to The Burrow with us?"

"I think so, yeah, just . . . . Go on without me and I'll be by in a little while. I just . . . ." She ignored the sudden, awkward cognizance of Ron watching their exchange. "I just need some time alone for a bit, is all. Is that okay?"

Ginny sniffled, dabbing her eyes as she nodded. "Of course it is! We'll see you later."

Hermione hugged each of them tight, and then turned to watch them as they walked off. She knew it was rough for Ron and George—especially George. With a sigh, she made her way toward them.

She couldn't let what had happened destroy her friendship with Ron.

George was a mess, sparing her from having to find anything to say, he pulled her in for a tight hug. She felt in danger of bursting into tears at the way he shook with his effort to hold in his crying.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself together enough to pry himself off her. She couldn't bear to watch as he turned and threw himself into his parents' waiting arms.

With a shivering sigh, she looked at Ron. He was staring into the distance, the tears trapped in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, pausing to chew at her bottom lip. "About a lot of things, but today, I'm so sorry you've lost your brother."

Ron forced a gulp down his throat, nodding. His arms folded across his chest, he fidgeted as he squared his jaw. After a moment, though, his frame slumped, and he dropped his arms to his sides.

"Oh, dammit, Hermione." Closing the distance between them, he pulled her in for a hug.

A surprised—if slightly tear-choked—laugh escaped her as she hugged him back. "Whoa, okay, there's a surprise." She shook her head. "So . . . so you're not angry with me, anymore?"

Leaning away enough to look at her, he forced a smile. "Nah. I still don't get what happened, but I lost a brother, I don't think I can deal with losing a friend, too."

She tsked, frowning thoughtfully up at him. "Thank you."

He dropped his hands and stepped back from her. "So, did I hear that right? You're coming by later?"

Hermione nodded. "What I said was 'I think so.'"

"Well, that's good enough. 'Cause Mum's making a feast, and I actually think we might not be able to finish it all without some help."

Laughing, she waved as he walked off. While she watched Harry and the Weasleys make their way toward the old cemetery's gated entrance, she was overcome with the same bizarre feeling as yesterday.

Just as after Narcissa's funeral, she was suddenly aware of the sensation of something trying to get her attention. Mostly alone, now, she turned her head, scanning the antiquated gravestones and mausoleums. Nothing seemed quite out of the ordinary.

Yet, she could not shake the impression.

Sighing closed her eyes, focusing on the odd awareness buzzing at the edge of her senses. She could definitely feel a . . . pull. Something tugging at her, hinting to walk in a particular direction.

Frowning, she opened her eyes and started off to follow it.

Hermione found herself traversing a path nearly swallowed by long, dry grass that rounded the small church. There was a mausoleum toward which she seemed to be making a beeline.

The closer she got, the wider she felt her eyes grow. There was something about the worn, dark blue stone of the walls. Something in the crouched angels adorning the corners.

Swallowing hard, she drew to a halt before the short flight of steps that led up to the ornate, wrought iron doors. As she stared up at the place, she understood what the feeling had been. It was an eerie sense of familiarity.

She had stood here, before. How? When? She didn't remember, she only knew that the sensation was deep, buried in the base of her brain, somehow. But this was it. She'd previously walked this path, but she didn't have any true memory of it.

The witch had a sneaking suspicion of what she would see when lifted her gaze to the name above those doors. She didn't want to do it, but she had to look. She knew she had to.

Exhaling a trembling breath, she nodded to herself. Hermione tipped back her head.

She felt the terrible, itchy sensation of tears gathering in her eyes as she stared up at the name  _Rosier_. Dear God, she'd known this was here.

How?

No, no, no! She had to prove there was something else—anything else—going on here.

* * *

Lucius started at the sound of the Manor doors flying open later that afternoon.

"Malfoys!"

His brows drawing upward, he walked to the parlor door and leaned his head out. Peering toward the foyer, he saw Miss Granger standing there. Her expression was exquisitely displeased.

She was looking about, and managed to catch his gaze with her own before he could duck back out of sight. Perhaps dropping their inquiry on her so suddenly this morning had been a bad idea, after all.

"Mr. Malfoy," she thundered as she stomped up to him.

Draco was probably hiding in his room after hearing her bellow through the house that way. Lucky little coward.

Clearing his throat as he found the angry little witch right in front of him faster than it seemed she should've been able to make it across the floor, he merely stared down at her, his expression questioning. "Miss Granger?"

She forced herself to draw in a deep breath and let it out slow before she could go on. "Please . . . tell me everything you know about this . . . Jean-Anne Rosier."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Sighing as he shook his head, Lucius thought it felt oddly appropriate to hold up his hands in a sign of surrender. The witch was so upset, her chestnut irises nearly looked as though they'd been set ablaze.

"Miss Granger, I told you the bulk of my knowledge on the Rosier heir this morning." He shifted gears, nodding as he noticed a glimmer of misgiving in her expression. "But Narcissa and Lisette were quite close. If you like, we can see if you can find something more in her study."

Hermione squared her jaw in thought. She didn't know quite what she'd expected to happen, didn't know quite what she'd expected him to say, when she stormed in here. But, he seemed willing to help her find whatever information there might be.

Holding his grey-eyed gaze for a few heartbeats as she collected herself, she nodded and backpedaled, allowing him room to step out and join her.

Lucius offered a curt nod. He didn't know if she did not remember the route to the room she'd found him in last night, didn't realize it was Narcissa's study, or did not wish to go through the house unaccompanied. Then, perhaps she simply had better manners than he expected of one raised by Muggles, and was waiting for him to guide her there as a matter of courtesy.

A notion that had clearly not registered on the young woman in the slightest when she'd barged, so very noisily, into his house only moments earlier.

He held in a sigh, trying not to think over her temper tantrum. What she must think of pure-bloods to have been so outraged this morning at the mere notion of having Wizarding parentage.

Though, he considered as he stepped out before her and started leading the way across the ground floor of Malfoy Manor, given her history with pure-bloods, he wasn't certain he could blame her. He was acutely aware of her trailing behind him in silence. He didn't want to glance back at her, it was an unusual feeling, but he wanted to give her the privacy to allow whatever emotions she might be feeling at this moment to flicker across her face without an audience.

They ascended the grand staircase just as quietly, until she—rather unexpectedly—broke the quiet between them.

"This morning, you seemed in much better shape than you were last night," she said, her eyes on the small of his back as they reached the landing.

"Yes, well, after sobering up, I realized the only way to get past my pain was to accept it."

"Huh." The sound escaped her lips seemingly all on its own.

Lucius paused, mid-step. She was a bit startled by his sudden halt, but managed to stop, herself, before stumbling into him.

He looked over his shoulder, catching her eye as he echoed the noise. "Huh?"

Hermione's brows shot up as she held his gaze. "Oh, I just meant that's a surprisingly pragmatic approach to such a delicate emotional issue. It would be completely understandable, were you to climb right back in the bottle and stay there a few more days."

"Yes, well, I do suppose 'huh' was a rather more succinct way to say all that."

Her jaw dropped. "Are you poking fun at me, Mr. Malfoy?"

Snickering, he shook his head as he turned his attention forward and started leading the way, once more. "With your temper, Miss Granger? I would not dream of it."

She narrowed her eyes as she watched him walking ahead of her, but clamped her lips together. There were a few choice things she could say to him about what he should watch out for with her temper, but she'd not give him the satisfaction.

That, and she had quite enough trouble holding in a laugh when he—without missing a step—reached blindly into one of the passing doorways. Lucius dragged a surprised, and visibly displeased, Draco out by the collar of his robes.

"Hello, Granger," the younger wizard said, his tone huffy as his father dragged him along.

Smirking, she shot her gaze from Lucius to Draco, and back. "Hello, Malfoy."

Hermione thought she should, perhaps, have not been surprised to find herself led to the room she'd found Lucius sprawled in last night. She'd realized at the time that it had likely been Narcissa's, but she'd not been terribly focused on the thought, given the state of things at the time.

Lucius stood just inside the doorway, relinquishing his hold on his son's collar before gesturing around the room. "The War has left us with few secrets. Look around, if you wish, I only ask that your respectfulness in not making mess."

She paused in the doorway. "You're not going to leave me in here alone, are you?" Of course, he'd clearly hauled Draco with them to assist her in her search, but Lucius' tone suggested he intended to leave them to it. Something about being in this room without his supervision felt wrong.

"Alone? No, Draco is perfectly capable of—"

"No, I mean you," she clarified. " _You_  can't leave me in here and just walk away and be . . . not here."

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Draco wince as Lucius turned his head. Catching her gaze, one brow arched high, he said, "Can I not?"

Refusing to be cowed into breaking eye contact or stammering, she stared back at him. The witch spread her hands and shook her head, her voice reasonable. "I know it can't be easy for you to be in this room, with her things, and I'm sorry that I'm imposing. But, it would feel wrong to be in here without you to at  _least_  oversee what I'm doing."

Lucius' brow settled by increments.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you, but you dropped a proverbial bomb on my head this morning." As she went on, she noticed his broad shoulders droop ever so slightly. "You won't have to do a thing, just stand there, or sit somewhere, and answer the occasional question about this or that item or . . . some notation on a scroll, maybe. Perhaps tell us if something jogs your memory, or you think there's some place, specific, we should look? Please?"

The elder Malfoy inhaled deep, drawing himself up to his full height as he looked down at her. She was utterly unfazed by him. Odd, he seemed to remember she once held a flicker of fear in his presence. No longer, apparently. He wanted to prove something by turning on his heel and striding away from this room right this minute.

But something wouldn't let him. Whether it was something in her expression, or a gleam in her eyes, or the mere curiosity about what had her storming back here, so insistent upon answers, he could not be certain.

Whatever the case, he nodded. Stepping fully into the room, he avoided her gaze, and Draco's, as he crossed to a plush armchair that faced the exquisitely carved Cherrywood desk, and took a seat.

"So be it," he said with another wave of his hand.

A hint of confusion edging her voice, she backpedaled a step as she exchanged a glance with his son. "I didn't expect that to work."

"Neither did I," Draco said with a shake of his head as he rounded the desk to start opening drawers, "but instead of wasting time in wonderment at your powers of persuasion, perhaps we should start looking, yes?"

"Right, of course." Hermione made a bee-line for the very same trunk in which Lucius and Draco had found the albums last night. She wouldn't have thought it especially eye-catching—even with its gorgeous craftsmanship—except she spied a splash of crimson on the lock.

Settling on her knees in front of the grand wooden box, she pointed at the color running along, and inadvertently defining, the grooves in the metalwork. "Is that blood?"

Lucius sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair in a lazy gesture. Staring blankly up at the ceiling, he said, "It was sealed with old magic, Miss Granger. I implore you, if you insist on discussion, speak while you search."

"Oh!" She nodded, opening the trunk and pulling out what contents were left after the albums. "Yes, sorry."

For a while, there was nothing but the sounds of pages turning, drawers opening and closing, and the parchment crackle of long unopened scrolls being unfurled.

Though he nearly uttered a second sigh perhaps twenty minutes into this endeavor—the witch having shifted to sit cross-legged on the floor before the trunk as she looked through what might be an old journal—Lucius instead kept the exasperated sound to himself. He watched her as she read page after page, seeming to lose herself in Narcissa's words.

What the bloody hell had come over him that he was acquiescing to the little tyrant's demands like this?

The very question running through his head prompted him to bring up what he'd intended to ask her as a means to distract himself. Father always said too much thinking was dangerous.

"Miss Granger?"

"Hmm?" She didn't look up from the words before her. She was backtracking the dates in what was clearly Narcissa's diary—or one of them—trying to find the approximate time just before Jean-Anne Rosier would've disappeared. He'd said it was after her parents died, toward the end of the First Wizarding War.

_Toward the end_  would likely put the date at somewhere between August and October, 1981, since the War ended with the murder of Harry's parents . . . . She'd have just turned two, even if she and Jean-Anne proved to be two different people.

Lucius stroked his lower lip with the tip of his finger in thought as he watched her expression in profile. A wayward lock of her wild golden-brown hair fell into her face, and he found himself stifling a chuckle at the way she simply blew it out of her eyes with a loud, irritated puff of air. She certainly was a determined thing, wasn't she?

"This morning," he started, his tone tinged with the faintest hint of caution, "you were blindly insistent that there was  _no_  way you could be Jean-Anne Rosier. Yet, now, you've stormed into my home, demanding we turn over any information we might have about her."

"Yes, that is the chain of events I recall." Her words were impatient, perhaps a little sour at the reminder. She didn't notice Draco look up from his side of the search, his gaze flicking from her to his father, and back, as though he might dash from the room any second, now, if he thought for a moment they wouldn't notice. There was some sudden zing of tension in the air that made him wonder if he should even be here.

"So, I must inquire . . . what changed?"

Swallowing hard, the witch arched a brow, seemingly at the writing before her. "I'd rather not say."

Lucius' own brows drew upward as he said, "Miss Granger?"

When he did not continue, she frowned. Resting her finger against the page she was on, she turned her head to look at him.

As she met his gaze, that little, tight-lipped Malfoy grin curved his lips. "Indulge me."

Once more that day, Draco winced. This time, it was at the way Hermione squared her shoulders as she shifted on the floor to face his father more fully.

"Mr. Malfoy," she began in a cool tone, "twice today, you've asked me to indulge you, and once you implored me. I wonder just how long it will be before you run out of polite ways to ask that I give in to what  _you_  want."

"Well, keep being so difficult and we may soon find out."

She chewed at the inside of her bottom lip as they stared at one another. There was not the slightest change in his expression. She didn't know if one of them was trying to win something, but she refused to concede.

Yet, her mouth had other ideas, apparently, and words were spilling out of it sooner than she could stop them. "Something very odd happened at Mrs. Malfoy's funeral, yesterday. I felt like something was out there, watching me from among the graves, and again today. I couldn't figure out why, so I tried to find the source only to realize what I was feeling wasn't something trying to get my attention, but a nagging impression of having been there before, though I know I haven't been. I kept going and I . . . ."

Her brow furrowed as her voice trailed off. Though she was still holding Lucius' gaze, there was a faraway look in her eyes as she finally forced herself to continue. "I found myself in front of the Rosier family crypt with the sinking impression that I'd been there—standing  _right_ there—at the foot of those steps, and there was this feeling in my gut telling me I was wrong. Telling me that I  _had_  been there before, but I don't remember. I tried to write it off, somehow, but  _nothing_  makes sense."

She didn't seem to notice the way her voice dropped. Nor the sudden sheen in her eyes.

His own eyes narrowing in an appraising look, Lucius stood from the chair. Crossing the study to where she sat—aware of her attention on him the entire time—he lowered to the floor, settling on his knees before her. From the lost expression on her face, he gathered this might just be the most confusing thing she'd ever encountered in her life.

Not that he could say he'd feel any differently in her place.

"So, then, Miss Granger, that begs the question." He shrugged, trying for a compassionate tone, and not at all certain if he achieved it—sympathy hardly being a strong suit among the Malfoy line. "Did you come here seeking validation that you are Hermione Granger . . . or confirmation that you very well could be Jean-Anne Rosier?"

She sniffled, holding his gaze as she shook her head. "I'm not even sure. I just thought if I could find something, _anything_ , to tell me one way or another . . . . It's so confusing. Yesterday I was Hermione Granger—only Hermione Granger. But even then, I had that feeling in my gut, that I knew that place. When I sat there, talking to Draco, there was this nagging sensation that I  _had_  to turn and look at something. And again, today, yet today, today it gave weight to the possibility you posed this morning."

"And you're wondering how that can be possible, at all, if you are _only_ Hermione Granger."

Her entire frame seemed to slump, the petite witch folding in on herself as a tear broke free to roll down her cheek. "Of course I am! Nothing makes sense to me right now, and I don't know  _what_ to do when things don't make sense!"

Draco fell into the chair behind the desk as he watched the interaction. He'd known the young woman for his entire adolescence straight into adulthood, and she'd spoken in many tones over that time. He'd listened to her across many different situations, and, yet . . . he was certain had never heard her sound as dismal and forlorn as she had just now.

What the bloody hell were either of them doing, trying to counsel her in this? Neither of them could possibly understand what this sudden shattering of her identity must feel like for her.

Just then, his father did something that caught him so off-guard, the younger Malfoy thought he might well fall out of the chair. Lucius crooked his finger and reached out, brushing the tear from her cheek.

Hermione, herself, appeared startled by the gesture, as well. She had no idea how to respond to the small show of kindness, however, merely staring up at him as she sniffled, once more.

After another silent moment of holding her gaze, Lucius thought, perhaps, she might not want an audience if she found some sort of confirmation, one way or the other, in Narcissa's old journals. She might want—might  _need_ —the freedom to react however her heart dictated without the concern of prying eyes.

Leaning past her, he reached into the trunk, extracting two more books. Again aware of her watching his movements, he straightened up, setting them atop the journal already in her hands.

At last tearing her gaze from him, though only for a moment, she dropped her attention to the books she now held.

When she looked up at him, once more, he said, "All of her journals. Take them, I'm certain I can trust you to respect the sacredness of a book."

Hermione could not help a half-grin curving her mouth, brightening her heartbroken expression ever so slightly.

"Should you find something useful in your search, feel free to return here, and I will help you  _if_  I can. If that proves a fruitless effort, return the journals, and we shall find some other route."

She could feel her brow furrow as she stared back at him, as though the expression formed all on its own. "You mean that? I can borrow these?"

Lucius nodded. "They may bring you solace. I know I've a reputation for being a somewhat difficult man." He paused, a small, gracious smile playing on his lips when Hermione and Draco, both, snorted a laugh at that. "But I have come to understand how important finding peace can be. Now, I'm certain you have better things to do with your time than stay here in this dark room with the two of us."

Hermione felt something she'd not expected to ever experience because of anyone with the name Malfoy— _hope_. Sniffling one final time, she nodded as she gathered the books into her arms. "Thank you very much, Mr. Malfoy."

"You're—" His words were cut off as she sprang forward, her gesture clearly spontaneous as she kissed his cheek.

"Thank you," she said again as she climbed to her feet and pivoted on her heel. "I'll take special care of them and return them soon, I  _promise_!"

As he watched her hurry from the room and listened to her footfalls disappear down the corridor toward the staircase, he managed to get the words out, though she was far beyond earshot. "You're welcome, Miss Granger."

Draco sat back in the chair—slumped was more like it, actually—as he looked from his father to the door, and back. He had to be seeing things, yet, he spoke his observation before he could stop himself. "Father, are you  _blushing_?"

Lucius turned a withering look on his son that had the young man cringing in a blink. "Of course, not. Don't be ridiculous."

Despite his words, however, Lucius Malfoy could not deny his sudden, inexplicable inability to ignore the warmth in his cheek. As though that quick brush of her lips against his skin lingered, somehow, in her absence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Several days had passed when Lucius found himself awoken by the sound of someone pounding at the doors. Pulling himself out of bed, he pressed his fingertips to his closed eyes, wondering if, perhaps, he'd dreamed it. But then, that infernal pounding started again.

With a sigh, he threw back his covers and climbed out of bed. Shrugging on his dressing gown and shoving his feet into his slippers, it was more out of habit than fearing he was actually in any sort of danger that he snatched up his wand as he made his way to his bedroom door.

Once out in the corridor, he found Draco emerging from his own room. His son was in a similarly confused and sleep-rumpled state, his grip on his wand so tight the color had drained from his knuckles.

The young man's grey eyes were huge as they met his father's.

His shoulders slumping, Lucius nodded. He started across the floor to the staircase, aware of Draco's footfalls following behind him. He knew Draco was still not sleeping through the night, that it would be a long while before he even could, so that he was not eager to traverse the house in the dark of night on his own was of little surprise.

His son was many things . . . built for War and loss not among them.

As they reached the ground floor, the pounding came again. Lucius was quite displeased with himself that the abrupt sound actually gave him a start.

"Dammit, Malfoys! I know you're in there! Open up!"

Both men visibly relaxed, even as they exchanged a bewildered glance.

Shaking his head as he strode to the doors, Lucius unlocked them. "Miss Granger," he said in a tone of reprimand as he pulled open one of the doors. "Do you have any idea what time—?"

The wild-haired witch stormed into the foyer—managing to slip under his arm as he held the door. "I know, and I'm sorry, but I just can't!"

Lucius barely had the door closed before he turned on his heel to face her. Draco merely eyed her erratic pacing with an arched brow.

When his son seemed reluctant to question her meaning, Lucius took it open himself to ask. But as soon as he opened his mouth, she started up, again.

"I know I want to know, but then I think I don't want to know. But I have to know, and it's ridiculous! It's ridiculous, because my knowing or not-knowing isn't going to change the actual truth, now is it? Of course it isn't! And so I've been sitting about for days now with the possible clues to what I need to know right in my hands, and you'd think I'd have combed through every word by now, but I haven't! You'd think I had, you'd think I'd have given them a second go-over by now, but I haven't! It's like every time I think about opening them, I—"

Lucius clamped his hands over her shoulders, stilling her pacing and cutting short her yammering as he snapped, "Miss Granger!"

Giving herself a shake, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. Hermione swallowed hard as she shrugged in his grasp. "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy. I just . . . ." She lifted the burden she'd been carrying in one arm before her, so that he could see she held Narcissa's diaries. Holding the books against her chest and wrapping both arms around them, she continued. "I know you gave me these to read through, but no matter how I tried, I couldn't seem to make myself. I think I'm afraid what I'll find, but I need to know."

Some of the tension drained from him at her admission. He nodded in understanding, though he had yet to drop his hands from her shoulders.

Sniffling, she frowned. "I tried to think back, to remember my early childhood. I wanted to remember something that could tell me I was wrong, that I'd never been to that churchyard before. I know that seems impossible given all the coincidences, but I felt like I was scrambling for anything."

Draco lowered himself to sit on the staircase. "And could you remember anything?"

She didn't look over at him. Instead, she dropped her gaze from Lucius' to stare down at the books in her arms. "No. But I know sometimes, there's more to our memories than we permit ourselves to see. And perhaps there's some context to my feelings of having been there before that I can't recall."

Lucius arched a brow. "True. But what . . . ? Wait. You want someone else to look at your memories." It wasn't a question.

Running the tip of her tongue nervously along her lips, she nodded. "Yes. I thought, if I focus really hard on the feeling I had when I was in the churchyard, standing before the Rosier crypt, then maybe . . . maybe someone who knows what they're doing with such things could extract the essence of the memory and then . . . ."

"I see," Lucius said with a thoughtful frown. Clearly she was trusting him to be someone who _knew what they were doing with such things_ , because her next words were of little surprise to him.

"So." She tried not to look, or sound, overly hopeful as she lifted her gaze to Lucius Malfoy's once more. "Do you have a pensieve?"

"Granger, listen," Draco said with a laugh, pinching tiredly between his eyes as he shook his head. "I hate to disappoint you, but—"

"Yes, we do."

Hermione was so shocked to hear an affirmative reply, she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a gasp. She registered Draco locking wide, disbelieving eyes on his father from the edge of her periphery.

"We do?" the younger wizard demanded, shooting up from his place on the staircase. "What do you _mean_  we do?"

Lucius' brows pinched, his eyes drifting closed as he shook his head. "This manor is the ancestral home of a pure-blood family. All such homes have one. That you did not know of it, Draco, was not a deliberate attempt to keep it from you, but merely that we never had need of its use in your presence. An ancient pure-blood line having their own pensieve is so largely so commonplace, it's taken for granted."

Her fingers slipping from her lips, Hermione exchanged a look with Draco. Raised an orphan among Muggles for much of his childhood, Voldemort likely had not known any such thing. He could've forcefully extracted memories from anyone he wished. After all, memory charms weren't useful if one wanted to look at the memories, veritaserum wasn't always on hand, and one could never be certain who was skilled at Occlumency. It seemed he would've thought such a thing useful, indeed. That he hadn't taken advantage the artifact—something that seemed obvious with Draco's total lack of knowledge about its very existence—had to mean Malfoys had never mentioned it's existence to him. She could tell from Draco's expression that he'd come to the very same realization.

Which also meant someone else had never told Voldemort any such thing, either, as that someone most certainly would've used it.

"Why didn't your sister-in-law know about it, then?" she asked as she returned her attention to Lucius. "When she believed I was lying to her about that  _bloody_ sword, why didn't she force the memory out of me and go look at what I recalled for herself?"

Lucius' grey eyes narrowed a bit at the sharpness of the witch's tone. He couldn't say he blamed her for getting worked up, however—that day was hardly a pleasant memory for anyone, but least of all for her, he'd imagine.

Sighing, he tightened his grip, firmly but gently, on her shoulders. Dear Lord, was he still holding her? Why hadn't he noticed sooner than he'd still had his hands on her all this time?

"Because I told her the Ministry confiscated ours during the house raids a few years back. We were family, but I never believed I could trust Bellatrix not to betray us. If she thought for a moment any of us were in possession of knowledge the Dark Lord could use and were being . . . less than forthcoming, she would not have hesitated to suggest that very thing."

"Never trusted her?" Hermione couldn't help but smirk as she held his gaze. "Suppose you're not completely terrible, after all, then."

He actually found himself wanting to return her amused expression, but he understood she did not quite grasp how serious the matter could have been. "She was quite paranoid when it came to not doing  _enough_ to serve him. It would not have been long before she imagined we knew things we did not. Do you know what happens to a mind when one tries to forcibly extract memories which do not exist?"

Her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his large hands. "I . . . ." She swallowed hard. "I imagine it's not good."

His brows drew upward. "You are a master of understatement, I see."

Again, she shrugged. "I suppose what I  _actually_  imagine is that scraping about in someone's mind for something that isn't there would leave the victim virtually lobotomized."

From the questioning looks on the Malfoy's faces at the word, she guessed they were unfamiliar with the term. Not surprising, she supposed, as its heyday was  _well_ after the legal separation of Muggle and Wizarding worlds.

"Sorry. It's an outdated and barbaric Muggle medical practice, intended to correct, well, let's say behavioral issues. But, really, it didn't take the issue away, it only made the patient too docile to act out. Even one of the foremost physicians in the technique was quoted as saying the result was surgically induced infantilism."

Draco's features pinched in disgust. "Well, the word breaks down to  _brain-cut_ , I doubt anything good could come from that."

The young woman nodded, a hint wide-eyed, herself, at the unfortunate subject.

"Then, I should say, the results are not very different, at all." Lucius' tone was quite serious, just then, and he waited until she snapped her eyes up to lock on his, once more, before he continued. "So, I ask you to think carefully. Are you  _absolutely_  certain you recalled being in the churchyard before?"

She pouted, feeling her lower lip tremble as she did so. "You're . . . you're asking, because if I'm mistaken . . . . Right, of course." Clearing her throat, she nodded. "I understand."

"And so?  _Are_  you absolutely certain?"

Forcing another gulp down her throat, Hermione closed her eyes. She exhaled slow, thinking back to that moment after the funeral. When she'd walked through the overgrown grass, along a path she shouldn't have known was there. She recalled feeling the breeze against her skin . . . recalled the sensation of her heart dropping into her stomach as she found herself staring up at the name on that mausoleum. As she realized she stood before the Rosier family crypt with no logical explanation for how she'd found her way there.

As she felt that dreadful certainty twisting in her gut that she'd stood there before, that her sense of something being here was  _this_. Her skin prickled with goosebumps at the memory and she opened her eyes, once more.

Shivering just a little, she met Lucius Malfoy's gaze, unflinching. "I'm utterly positive I've been there before. So long ago the memory is barely a memory, but it  _is_  there, yes."

Nodding, Lucius gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before at last dropping his hands from her. "Then follow me."

Hermione trailed after Lucius' long-legged stride, but Draco hesitated to follow. There was simply something to this moment that felt incredibly private. He doubted she was pleased with having to turn to one Malfoy, as it was, so having two there, as her fears were dismissed or confirmed?

She clearly knew what it meant when she didn't hear any footfalls behind her.

Hermione turned her head, her own steps pausing as she looked at him. "Draco? You're not coming with us?"

He shook his head, his gaze leaping from her to his father, as the elder Malfoy pivoted to face him, as well, and back. "No, no. I'm sorry. This just . . . feels wrong to intrude on something like this. This could be very difficult for you, and I'm, well, I'm shit at handling emotional difficulties, really."

Draco couldn't help a half-grin in response when his words brought surprised laughter from both Granger and his father.

Nodding, the witch sighed once the moment of levity had passed. "All right. Well, goodnight, then, I suppose?"

With a nod of his own, Draco turned and started up the steps. "Goodnight, Granger, Father," he called over his shoulder.

The pair left behind on the floor below both turned and started off, once more.

Though, Hermione could hardly say she was all that familiar with the layout of Malfoy Manor, she had the oddest impression they were taking a roundabout way to wherever they were going. Lucius seemed to halt each time they reached an intersection of rooms, as though he wasn't quite certain of the way, himself, and she knew that could not be.

She must've made some thoughtful sound without realizing, because the wizard guiding her through the massive house said, "Something the matter, Miss Granger?"

Her eyebrows shooting upward, she locked her gaze on the back of his head as they walked. "Oh, um, I just got the feeling we're sort of taking the scenic route to wherever it is we're going."

"I suppose we are," he answered with a sigh. "I thought you might appreciate avoiding the drawing room."

Hermione's eyes widened at that. She'd not expected him to be so considerate.

Swallowing hard, she ignored the odd feeling of her cheeks warming at such a small, simple act of thoughtfulness. She also ignored the urge to brush the fingertip of her free hand along the scar on her throat. "Yes, actually. Thank—thank you."

He nodded, and kept walking. He was pretending he didn't hear the catch in her throat as she spoke.

In silence, they continued on. Across the ground floor, through a thick, ancient looking door she thought appeared strangely incongruous with the rest of the manor's décor, and down a winding staircase. She understood this must lead to some intentionally separated section of the cellar below.

She wondered, as they reached the bottom, why Draco hadn't ever stumbled across the family's pensieve. Children were by nature curious, and who wouldn't have been curious about a door that seemed so very out of place? Shrugging, she kept her thoughts to herself as she followed Lucius to what looked like an old trunk, but more aged and . . . important, somehow. Draco hadn't just been a child, he'd been a  _pure-blood_  child. She was rather certain when he was told to stay away from something, he'd listened rather than finding his way around the rules, as a Muggle child—or, one of the Weasley twins—might've.

Lucius settled on his knees beside the ancient wooden box and gestured for her to do the same.

Hermione followed suit, lowering beside him. She carefully placed Narcissa's diaries aside as she watched him lift the lid.

The sides of the box collapsed fluidly outward, the white-blue glimmer of the substance within the pensieve spilling about and illuminating their surroundings. He turned his attention to Hermione as he raised his wand. She appeared transfixed by the pool within the large, rune-inscribed silver bowl.

"Miss Granger?"

With some effort, Hermione pulled her gaze from the swirling surface to meet his eyes.

His brows pinched together as he tried for a sympathetic look. "Are you ready?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Style of viewing in flashback scene written using reference from the initial passage introducing the pensieve in Goblet of Fire.

**Chapter Five**

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione nodded. "I'm ready."

Lucius, despite the certainty in her tone, hesitated. His wand hovering close to her temple, but not quite near enough to touch, he asked, "Are you sure? You're positive you can focus adequately? It is rather late."

"I know." She offered a small, quick smile—just the barest lifting of the corners of her mouth, there and gone again, nearly in blink. "And, I'm sorry I woke you the way I did. You're more gracious than I'd ever have given you credit for in  _not_  throwing me right back out the door."

A quiet moment passed between them, his wand lowering ever so slightly, before his features pinched in an affronted expression. "Miss Granger," he said, his tone one of mild shock. "I may be a former Death Eater, but I'll have you know I'm also a gentleman, and as such I would  _never_ throw a young lady."

Her eyebrows drew upward and her lower lip quivered for a few heartbeats, and then she found herself laughing. She could've accused him of murder, deceit, thievery, a dozen and a half nefarious forms of treachery . . . but oh,  _yes_! Throwing a girl was where he drew the line!

Apparently aware how ridiculous his declaration sounded, he smirked. He waited for her snickering to die away before he spoke, once more. "I ask again if you're certain? That hardly sounded like the reaction of a witch with her wits about her."

Shrugging, she looked into the white-blue pool within the pensieve. "I know, I mean, psychologically I  _know_  I'm exhausted, but I can't rest. I can't, not until I have some solid form of answer. Even if it's only a part of an answer. I don't even need to know what happened, or how. Not yet. Right now, I only need to know who I am."

He arched a brow. "And then you'll collapse, dead asleep where you sit?"

Her mouth pulled to one side and she cast her gaze toward the ceiling as she thought on that. "You know, there is a chance I just might."

"Well," he said, the faintest edge of humor in his tone as he lifted his wand, once more. "Let's hope that's not so, as I am not carrying you up those stairs. Now, close your eyes and focus on that feeling you remembered."

Nodding, Hermione swallowed hard as she closed her eyes. Then, however, she popped them right back open, meeting his gaze.

His eyes narrowed as he stared back at her. "Miss Granger?"

She nervously licked her lips as her shoulders moved in a shrug so minimal he nearly missed it. "I just, I know this might not yield anything that will help me, I get that, and I won't hold you responsible if that's the case. Perhaps there's just not enough of a memory in there to make sense of, but . . . regardless of what happens, or doesn't happen, thank you."

"You're welcome." He shifted in place and cleared his throat. "Now, if we can proceed without further interruption? I'm in nightclothes and a dressing gown and this floor is quiet chilly."

"Oh!" She uttered a surprised giggle, muffling the mirthful sound just as fast by clamping a hand over her mouth. She let her fingers slip downward as he lifted his brows at her. "Sorry. Of course."

Dropping her hand into her lap, she once more closed her eyes. Hermione concentrated on her breathing a moment, steadying it, letting her inhalations and exhalations move through her evenly. Only when she found herself sufficiently calmed, did she start thinking back to that bizarre sensation. She focused on that moment she'd stood before the mausoleum

That stirring in the pit of her stomach . . . .

The strange notion that the air smelled familiar, somehow . . . .

The way she thought the grass seemed shorter, now . . . . Why would she possibly think any such thing if she'd truly never been there, before?

There it was. The sense that she'd stood there— _right_ there—on some far off, previous occasion. She scrutinized that impression, examined it as closely as she dared without overthinking it.

With a subtle nod, she whispered, "I'm ready. I have it."

Nodding back, despite that she could not see the movement, Lucius carefully brought the tip of his wand closer to her temple. The moment before it would touch her skin, he let the instrument hover. He forced forward the tiniest wisp of magic, letting it into the ether in search of her memory.

He dreaded the idea that this might not work. The witch had a formidable mind, and—no matter how certain she was—there was still a chance he could break it.

The silver tendril of memory slipped out then, seeming to seek that searching bit of magic as it crept toward him. That essence shot forward to cling to the edge of his wand's tip, shifting around it as though trying to find purchase.

Lucius kept his gaze locked on it, nearly as though he expected the memory to fall away, and lowered it into the pensieve. The bit of blue-white slid into the pool below and he watched the way it joined into the substance already within, a silent splash followed by slow, mellow rippling.

When the ripples settled into a lulling motion, he said, "The memory is ready to be viewed. Are you all right?"

Hermione gave herself a shake, opening her eyes. She looked to the pensieve nearly in disbelief. "I . . . I think I was afraid that wouldn't actually work."

"As was I." Before she could question the oddity of him being afraid  _for_  her for any reason, he went on. "You should view your memory with me, Miss Granger."

"Oh, I don't—" She forced a gulp down her throat as she shook her head. "I don't know. I'm scared."

"This memory of yours is a special circumstance. You, yourself, recall so little of what's there, that there is no true way to tell where the memory begins or ends. Unclear memories, recollections which are not fully realized by the possessor, are tricky that way; it is safer if we both go."

"You mean so we can pull each other out, because . . . what? Getting lost in other bits that might've tagged along could be possible?"

"You are as intelligent as your exploits would dictate. But your fear is noted, and understood. Therefore . . . forgive the presumption." The witch jumped a little as he slipped his fingers around hers.

She dropped her gaze to their joined hands. Nodding, she sniffled, telling her fear it could go hang, she'd faced far more frightening things than the recesses of her own mind. She could do this!

"All right."

Though, she waited for him to move first, she followed suit, leaning close to the pensieve. Closer, she saw the grassy ground of the churchyard below, as though she hovered high in the air above it. Leaning just a bit more, and suddenly she felt herself plummeting toward that green, gravestone-dotted earth.

Sooner than she could scream, however, she halted. Like a scene out of some silly cartoon, she found herself floating in the air a moment before she was deposited on the ground by an unseen force.

"Miss Granger?"

Scrambling to her feet, she looked toward the sound of Lucius' voice. "Mr. Malfoy?"

But the space between them was interrupted by two figures. That must've been what separated their clasped hands—they'd inadvertently been parted to avoid the actual participants in the memory.

He was staring at the pair, and Hermione could not blame him. She hadn't expected to recognize the woman who stood with the red-haired toddler.

Recognized her before she even heard Lucius Malfoy say in a hushed, mildly awed tone, "Narcissa?"

Narcissa Malfoy, looking barely any older than Hermione was, now, held the child's hand clasped in her own. Hermione felt dazed, her movements sluggish, but automatic, as she rounded the two and returned to Lucius' side. His movement seemed automatic, as well, as he reclaimed her hand.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, shaking her head as Narcissa dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes with her free hand.

Lucius frowned, though his gaze was riveted on the blonde witch before them. "For what, Miss Granger?"

"I had no idea Mrs. Malfoy might be in my memories like this. Seeing her so suddenly and unexpectedly can't be easy for you."

He smirked, his brows pinching together, though he still stared. "As you say, you had no idea, thus you have no reason to apologize."

She nodded, swallowing hard as she returned her attention to the woman and child, as well. No matter what he said, she certainly felt as though an apology was in order.

She listened, she concentrated on her periphery. No one else was here. It was only the two of them, Narcissa Malfoy, and a child who could  _only_  be Jean-Anne Rosier. And they stood before the Rosier family crypt.

_Precisely_ where Hermione had stood that day, after Fred's funeral.

"I'm so sorry you won't get to know them," Narcissa said, her voice wavering a little as she lowered the handkerchief. "Not truly, anyway."

Jean-Anne looked up at the witch. "Aunt Nissy?"

Lucius chuckled, the sound equally sad and wistful. "I forgot. Jean-Anne called her Nissy, because she couldn't pronounce Narcissa."

"And because Narcissa and Lisette were close," Hermione said as Narcissa turned, fluidly lowering herself to one knee so she was eye-level with the child, "hence, Lisette's daughter calling her  _aunt_ , I would assume."

Lucius nodded.

Jean-Anne tugged the cloth from Narcissa's hand and patted the pale-haired witch's cheeks.

Narcissa gave a sorrowful half-smile. "You don't really understand, do you? Where you mother and father have gone?"

The child shook her head.

Sniffling, Narcissa turned her attention to the mausoleum. She nodded, directing Jean-Anne to follow her gaze. "They're in there."

"What are they doing in there?"

"She certainly is articulate," Hermione murmured around a sudden lump in her throat.

"Can you honestly say you're surprised?" Lucius asked, though it didn't actually sound like a question. "Jean-Anne started speaking very early, as I recall."

Narcissa needed a moment, she let out a trembling breath before she could form the words. "They're sleeping, darling."

Jean-Anne's tiny brow furrowed, clearly trying to process that. "Can't I go to sleep with them?"

Hermione felt like she'd been punched in the gut as she heard the child's words. . . . As she watched a tear spill down Narcissa's cheek, and felt a splash of dampness from her own eyes.

"I'm sorry, my darling, no." Swallowing hard, Narcissa shook her head, laughing sadly when Jean-Anne once more raised the handkerchief and patted away her tear. "This is death. It's a special sleep, one doesn't wake from it. Your parents would not wish that for you."

Jean-Anne nodded, a pout tugging at her little bottom lip. "Forever sleep?"

Again, Narcissa sniffled. "Forever sleep, yes. Come along, now."

The witch stood, tugging Jean-Anne along toward the church.

When Hermione turned to follow, Lucius' hand on hers stopped her. "What is it?"

"The funerals for the fallen from the Second War," he said, meeting her gaze as she turned her head to look up at him, "they took place in another church and the caskets transported to this churchyard, yes?"

"Yes. Why is that important?"

"That's because this church has been abandoned since long before the _First_  War, Miss Granger."

Hermione frowned, returning her attention to the other pair. Narcissa, using her wand to unlock the doors, opened them, ushering the child inside. Hermione had the feeling that if those doors closed, they'd be shut out of the memory.

"Let's hurry," she said, marshaling her focus.

His shoulders slumping, he moved alongside the young woman on rushed footfalls. As they neared the closing doors, they could see Narcissa walk to the altar. Stepping up onto the dais, she relinquished her hold on Jean-Anne's hand.

Hermione and Lucius managed to slip into the church just before the doors shut.

By the time they reached the altar, Narcissa had extracted a bottle of purple liquid from the sacristy. Swirling the potion in its container as she crossed back to stand before Jean-Anne, once more, Narcissa uncorked the bottle.

"You didn't know about this, did you?" Hermione asked, her voice barely audible.

Lucius shook his head.

"Wha's that?" Jean-Anne murmured in wonderment as Narcissa knelt before her.

The witch held up the bottle for the child to see its contents clearly. "This is going to help protect you. Your parents made me promise I would do all I could to keep you from . . . certain people."

"Bad people?"

Narcissa opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it again, giving a fluid shrug. "People who believe those like your mother and father are bad for what they believe."

Jean-Anne's little face squished into an angry expression.

Narcissa laughed as she nodded. "Yes. I understand how you feel. You remember what I told you about potions?"

The child nodded.

"This one is very special. Ancient, in fact. It will hide you. And the  _only_  way to undo its effects . . . ." Narcissa paused as she put the potion bottle to Jean-Anne's lips. "Is to drink it again."

Jean-Anne drank, wincing and coughing as Narcissa pulled the bottle away. "Yuck."

"I'm sorry, I know it doesn't taste good." The blonde witch stood, crossing to the sacristy to replace the bottle. She returned to Jean-Anne, taking the girl with her to one of the dilapidated pews.

Sitting down, she pulled the child into lap. Narcissa cradled her close, starting to rock her. "I'll be sending you away soon. I don't want to, but it's my responsibility to see your parents wishes through. The people you are going to meet will give you another drink of that potion."

"Yuck," Jean-Anne said again, but this time, the word as followed by a yawn.

Narcissa smiled sadly, putting her head down atop Jean-Anne's as she started to hum.

Hermione observed them, uncertain quite what she felt as Jean-Anne drifted to sleep. She knew . . . this was  _her_  memory, there was only one person she could be. Yet, she still couldn't seem to wrap her head around it.

Until she watched the rich, bright red of Jean-Anne's wild hair darken, changing to the same golden brown she saw every morning in the mirror.

She felt like the air had been ripped from her lungs. Struggling for a breath, she said, "I'm ready to leave now, Mr. Malfoy."

Tearing his gaze from Narcissa, looking so peaceful, so full of life, then, he nodded.

Hermione wasn't certain quite how they got back, but the next thing she knew, she was once again in that strange cellar room. She was oddly aware of Lucius Malfoy's hand still around hers . . . of his grip loosening and slipping away.

She looked up at him. His grey eyes were swimming with unshed tears, but he looked worried.

"Miss Granger? You're crying."

Shaking her head, she lifted her fingers to touch her face. God, she must've been sobbing nearly the entire time, her skin was soaked.

Lucius frowned, watching as the young woman fussed to wipe dry her cheeks. Yet, it seemed she wasn't finished with the outpouring of emotion.

Holding up her hands, she said, "You were right. I'm her . . . I'm  _her_ , I'm Jean-Anne Rosier!" The last words to fall from her lips were so choked by her tears, he barely understood her.

He could only imagine she must feel very out of sorts right now, yet even so, he could not help but roll his eyes. Sympathy wasn't his strong suit, but he slid his arm around her and pulled her to rest her head on his shoulder as she sobbed.

Hermione didn't know what to do with herself as horrid, strangled sounds tore from her throat. She didn't understand just what she was feeling as the tears poured down her cheeks, and her fingers clawed uselessly at the sleeves of Lucius's dressing gown.

She was Jean-Anne Rosier. Hermione Granger was  _no one_. She was a lie!

She didn't know quite how long she went on like that—quite how long he allowed her to go on—before the tears slowed and her throat had gone hoarse. Didn't quite know how much time had passed before her outburst exhausted her, causing her lack of sleep to catch up to her.

Lucius felt the witch's frame droop against him. Lowering his gaze to her face, he said in a soft tone, "Miss Granger?"

The witch was out cold.

Sighing, he looked from her, to the staircase, and back. "Oh, Merlin's bloody beard," he muttered under his breath.

With a wave of his wand, he closed the pensieve's box and lifted the lid back into place. He moved her carefully, settling her in his arms and then climbing to his feet.

Though she was a million miles away from hearing him right now, Lucius grumbled and muttered the entire way back up that staircase about how she'd just forced him to go back on his insistence that he would not carry her up these steps.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Breakfasts at Malfoy Manor had been . . . a bit of an adventure since the end of the Second Wizarding War and the loss of their elves. Well,  _all_  meals were, really, awkward and messy adventures that produced barely edible concoctions. Though, Draco thought he and his father should be proud to say they were becoming more appetizing as the days went on and they learned a little more here and there with each kitchen-related mishap.

He'd also noticed their attempts at brewing coffee had improved, since the night Granger had inadvertently showed them the proper way to go about it when she'd help sober up Father that night. Had that been a week and a half ago? Two weeks, now, maybe? Somewhere between the two, probably.

Yet, it was not any sudden higher or lesser quality of the food served, nor a return to abysmal coffee that signaled Draco that something was different in their home this morning. No, the meal before him was passable—and accomplishment for them—and the coffee had turned out all right.

No, the thing that unsettled him, that he could not seem to get past, was that Father had set out a third place at the table. More so, the elder Malfoy did not give any indication that this was an unusual thing.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Draco lifted his coffee for a sip as he asked, "Father?"

"Hmm?" Lucius didn't look up from his half-burnt toast.

"There's a third place setting because . . . ?"

Still focused on his food, Lucius shrugged. "Miss Granger stayed the night."

Draco spat out his mouthful of coffee in shock. Coughing, he turned his father. The man was looking up at spray of dark liquid across the tabletop, his brows lifted and his expression questioning.

Sitting a bit straighter in his chair—he hadn't the foggiest idea what his son  _thought_ he meant by that—he sighed. "Viewing her memory proved rather traumatic for her, and after an emotional outburst, she fell asleep. I put her in one of the guest suites."

With a sound of discomfort in the back of his throat, Draco nodded. "Right, of course, sorry." He didn't look at his father, again, as he stood to clean up the mess.

Lucius only watched the younger wizard as he wiped at the spill of coffee. He knew exactly why one would typically think such a thing in this situation, but in  _this_  context, he could not quite understand it.

Where on _earth_  had Draco gotten the impression that something less than innocent could be going on between himself and Miss Granger?

* * *

Hermione drifted into consciousness slowly, blinking her eyes open only to be greeted by unfamiliar surroundings. Letting her lids slide closed, again, she tried to get her bearings. The cobwebs of sleep cleared away and she recalled last night's events.

Dear  _Lord_ , she remembered making such a terrible nuisance of herself, barging in here like that in the middle of the night and all but demanding Lucius Malfoy's aid. And now, what did she have? Knowledge . . . .

Opening her now-watery eyes, she let out a sigh. For once, she'd finally found a bit of knowledge she wished she could unlearn. Not that not knowing would change anything. She still wasn't who she'd thought she was . . . . She still wasn't Muggle-born Hermione Granger.

She sat up on the bed, glancing about the room as she righted herself. The covers had been haphazardly pulled up around her, and her shoes had been removed. How had . . . ?

_"I know, I mean, psychologically I_ know _I'm exhausted, but I can't rest. I can't, not until I have some solid form of answer. Even if it's only a part of an answer. I don't even need to know what happened, or how. Not yet. Right now, I only need to know who I am."_

_He arched a brow. "And then you'll collapse, dead asleep where you sit?"_

_Her mouth pulled to one side and she cast her gaze toward the ceiling as she thought on that. "You know, there is a chance I just might."_

_"Well," he said, the faintest edge of humor in his tone as he lifted his wand, once more. "Let's hope that's not so, as I am not carrying you up those stairs."_

She felt the smallest hint of a smile curve her lips as she understood Mr. Malfoy had, in fact, carried her up those stairs. And across the floor and up the next flight to this room. She should've expected his posh and proper upbringing would get the better of him. But, Hermione reflected, as she pushed back the covers he'd pulled over her and peered down at her shoes, carefully set on the floor beside the bed, she never would've expected . . . .

Clearing her throat, she gave her head a shake and touched her hand to her cheek. Well, the air in this room was certainly a bit warm for her tastes. She should go and find out what her inadvertent hosts were up to.

She climbed out of bed and slipped into her shoes. Crossing the room to a large, gilt-framed mirror, the witch cringed at the sight of her hair, more wild and unruly than usual. Afraid of taking advantage of his hospitality too much, she didn't rummage about for a hairbrush—brushes weren't exactly her friends, as it was, anyway—instead, raking her fingers through her tangled mane until it was in some sense of order. Well, just this side of less-than-utter-chaos was more like it.

Nodding to her image in the mirror, she turned toward the door. But the sight of the unmade bed caught her attention from the corner of her eye. Now, she might have been lied to all her life, but she'd been raised better than that.

As she crossed back to the bed and started fixing the covers, she knew exactly what she was doing. She was perfectly aware that her focus on straightening and folding and swiping away wrinkles in the fine linens and satins was a distraction. She was focusing on the small, manageable things, simply trying to make it from one step to the next without thinking too much on the metaphorical bombshell that had dropped on her head.

Standing straight to look over her work, she propped her hands on her hips and nodded to herself. The bed looked perfect. Good.  _But honestly . . ._ she couldn't help grousing in her head, despite her attempts to avoid thinking about deeper things, just now. She'd been through a terrible war, she'd lost so many friends, she'd been forced to send away the only parents she'd ever known . . . .

_When_  was it going to have been enough? When would the Powers That Be decide she'd been through enough struggles?

Biting hard into her lower lip, she inhaled deep through her nostrils. "No, Hermione, stop it." With a shake of her head, she pivoted on her heel and turned toward the door, at last leaving the room.

She made her way downstairs, careful to avoid the door of the drawing room as she crossed the ground floor of Malfoy Manor. Though . . . .

Frowning, she looked about. The layouts of ancestral wizard homes could be, well,  _eclectic_  at best, and completely nonsensical at worst. The smells of coffee and burnt toast told her the pale-haired wizards were likely sitting down to breakfast. She tried to recall the walk through this floor only hours earlier. She'd not really paid mind to her environment at the time, but perhaps she'd glimpsed something that would tell her where the dining room was located.

Despite her efforts to think before moving, she was too fidgety just now, and found herself wandering idly as she tried to remember.

But then, she heard voices.

Draco's distinct, constantly snark-tinged tone was just detectable through a set of doors ahead of her to the right. She didn't want to eavesdrop, but all the same, she wanted to know what sort of conversation she was about to interrupt.

Stepping lightly, she neared the doors and put her ear close to seam between them.

_"It worked?"_  There was a pause, she imagined he was wiping his mouth, or taking a sip of coffee.  _"Well? What did she remember? Is she, you know, Jean-Anne?"_

Lucius tsked, and Hermione found that she had to hold back a snicker as she thought she could picture the hint of impatience edging around the elder Malfoy's eyes as he looked at his son.  _"I rather think that is Miss Granger's business to share, if she so deems, not mine."_

She straightened up, staring at the sliver of space between the doors. He'd been there, he'd witnessed it, himself. She didn't know quite how she felt about him protecting her privacy as though not to do so had never even occurred to him.

The witch told herself that, of  _course,_  it hadn't occurred to him. There was that posh, proper upbringing at work, again—nothing to do with _her_ , personally.

Not wanting to simply barge in, though it did feel odd to knock at a dining room door, Hermione tapped her knuckles against the wood.

There was a responding silence, she guessed they were arching their brows at one another. "Yes?"

Only when Lucius called out, did she push open one of the doors and step through. "Sorry," she said, looking from him, to Draco, and back. Strange, her gaze should've gone to Draco, first, being the one with whom she was more familiar, but she supposed recent events had fostered a kinship between her and his father. She never, in a  _million_  years, would've guessed their lives were connected—that  _they_  were connected—through Narcissa. "I simply didn't want to barge in, unannounced."

Lucius, once more proving that he could be infuriatingly gentlemanly, stood from the table as she entered the room. Giving a start at the sudden motion, Draco followed suit, though the look on his face made it plain he didn't realize what he was doing until he was already standing.

The witch bit her lip, holding in a laugh. It probably hadn't occurred to Draco to treat her with manners, given that familiarity—or, perhaps she should call it past animosity—between them.

One corner of the older wizard's mouth pinched upward in the faintest half-grin as he gestured toward the third place setting. "Good morning, Miss Granger. Would you care to join us?"

"All right, um, thank you." Fixing her attention on the table, she crossed the room and pulled out the chair . . . . And then paused, staring at the food set on the tray in the center. "What . . . what is that?"

Draco glanced at the tray. "Eggs and toast?"

Well, yes, she knew  _what_  it was, she simply had no idea why it all looked like that. Then, a surprised laugh burst out of her, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

Both Malfoys turned their attention to her, their brows high on their foreheads as they reclaimed their seats.

Pulling her fingers down to curl them in a loose fist over her heart, she said, "Oh, oh, you  _poor_  things. You don't know how to cook, do you?" Typically, she would not be so accommodating, but they'd really been more gracious about all this than she could've hoped for, or than she'd expected of them. "No, no, no."

Without waiting for their response, she rounded the table, taking their plates and putting them, nearly-full, onto the tray. "Can't let you eat this. Kitchen's through there?" She jutted her chin toward a door opposite the entryway.

Lucius nodded, before exchanging a bewildered glance with Draco. "Miss Granger, no. This really isn't—"

"Isn't necessary?" she asked as she crossed to the kitchen door. "Nonsense. You've been more helpful than you had reason to be, and certainly more so than I could've imagined. Making one breakfast is the least I can do. Besides, if _this_  is what you've been up to at meal times . . . . Well, it's just this once, anyway."

With that, she vanished beyond the door.

Father and son watched each other's questioning expressions amid the sounds of her rattling about in the kitchen.

Finally, Lucius cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the tabletop. "Well, _this_  is unexpected."

"I'll say." Draco couldn't help a quiet chuckle. "We should do favors for Muggle-borns more often."

There was a shutting down in Lucius' face, then. Some shift in his gaze at Draco's reference to Hermione as a Muggle-born. Though he was determined to stand by what he'd said earlier—it was Miss Granger's choice to tell, or not to tell, anyone of her true parentage—his son quite clearly read the change in his demeanor.

"She  _is_  Jean-Anne Rosier!"

Draco's too-loud words brought the witch poking her head back through the door. She caught Lucius mid-wince, and Draco's startled grey eyes locked on her.

"I didn't speak of it," Lucius said, his voice barely a thread of sound.

Hermione ignored for the moment that he needn't have explained it to her, that he shouldn't care if she believed him innocent of telling her secrets, or not. She didn't have the capacity, just now, to consider what it meant that he wanted her to know that he hadn't spoken of her private business, even to his own son.

"I believe you." More so, why the bloody hell did she need him to know that she trusted his word? Oh, this was ridiculous.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she stepped back into the dining room. Just long enough to answer, then she'd pop back in and make sure she wasn't burning anything.

"Yes, Draco, I  _am_ Jean-Anne Rosier. I'm just, really, trying not to think about it." She took a deep breath and let it out slow. "Last night was very hard on me, and actually, on your father, too, as . . . we learned your mother didn't just send me away, she  _secreted_  me away, and no one ever even knew."

The younger wizard's face fell at the revelation. He darted his gaze to his father for a quick moment. Lucius hadn't looked up from the table.

"We know how to reverse the potion she used to hide me, but I can't know if the one she stored away is still viable, so that will require some testing, and perhaps backward engineering of the potion's composition . . . ." Realizing she was getting carried way, Hermione shook her head. "But before that, I need to know how much my parents really knew about where I came from. After I set you two with a decent meal, I'll go home and see if I can find anything in their personal documents."

She wanted to run to Harry and Ron, to tell them all this. But she didn't even know how  _she_  felt about it, she was in dread that they'd react in the worst possible way—treating her as though they didn't actually  _know_  her, at all.

As she was about to disappear into the kitchen, once more, Lucius' voice caught her off guard. Halting, she looked over at him. "I'm sorry?"

With a sigh, he lifted his gaze to hers. "I said, I'll accompany you."

Her shoulders slumped. Not that she wouldn't be grateful not to have to go through this alone, but she wasn't so certain he was thinking clearly. "Mr. Malfoy, thank you, but you've already done a lot—words I never thought I'd say to you in a positive context, but there you have it. You don't have to see this through any further."

His eyes locked with hers, he nodded. "Actually, I believe I do. You were not the only one lied to, if you'll recall. Lies by omission to us both. This has the danger of making me believe Narcissa wasn't the woman I knew. I need to know more, as well. I  _need_  that sort of closure, Miss Granger."

"All right, then," she said, nodding in return. It hadn't actually been a request, she recognized that he hadn't left her room to tell him no. "Draco?"

The younger wizard went wide-eyed at his inclusion. "Hmm?"

"Will you be tagging along, as well?"

Draco sat back, shaking his head. "No. I . . . . My mother hiding you, you being a pure-blood. My world's upside down enough, just now, without piling any new discoveries you might stumble across on top of it."

Shrugging, Hermione disappeared back into the kitchen.

Returning his attention to his coffee—the only part of the meal she'd left behind—he took a long sip, his gaze on his father. Lucius was watching the kitchen door.

Draco had thought it best he keep to himself that he had a secondary reason for not choosing to  _tag along_ , as she'd put it. There was simply something he couldn't put his finger on.

Just like that night they'd been rifling through his mother's study, when Granger had been in that discussion with Father, Draco felt oddly as though if he went with them, he would be intruding, somehow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Careful," Hermione said over her shoulder as she popped out of Apparation, her hand on Lucius' arm to take him sidealong, since he'd never been there, before. Appearing in her parent's very-Muggle home, she knew, without so much as a glance in his direction, that he was making a sour face before he even took in his surroundings. "You sneer any harder and you might injure yourself."

She'd have preferred to come in through the front door, but she did have some  _nosy_  neighbors. The witch didn't want to imagine what they'd think about her bringing an older, oddly dressed gentleman into her parents' house while they were 'vacationing.'

Clearing his throat awkwardly as she dropped her hand from his arm, he shook his head. "My apologies, Miss Granger, I didn't realize."

She shrugged while she made her way through the living room and toward the staircase. "You really need to have a long chat with yourself sometime, then."

His brow furrowing—he could swear she was suggesting that he was rude and should see to that—he fought to keep his face clear of any expression as he followed after her. It wasn't even the—the utter Muggle-ness of the home that caused him to think another unpleasant look might tinge his features.

It was that now, knowing what he did of her true identity, it felt so terribly wrong that she'd been raised here, among  _this_ , rather than in the Wizarding world. Though, he did imagine that had she been raised by _any_ branch of the Rosier clan, she would not have the compassionate streak that had allowed her to feel sympathy toward himself and Draco, especially after all his family had put her through.

Upstairs, she went directly across the floor to the room at the end. He trailed behind her, but an open doorway caught his attention rather without his intent.

Frowning, he leaned into the entryway and peered inside. The books lining every available surface—volumes he recognized from the Hogwarts curriculum, among them—told him this was Miss Granger's room. Curious in spite of himself, he took a step inside. While he imagined she was likely a much tidier person under normal circumstances, the stress of the last few weeks saw to drawers being left open, and all manner of articles of clothing strewn about the floor and bed.

He felt a bundle of something under the toe of his shoe. Frowning, he moved his foot and reached down to pick up the item. He wasn't entirely certain what it was. Turning it in his hand, he tried to make sense of the bit of lace and satin . . . .

Wait . . . .  _No_. The color drained from his face as he wondered if this thing that resembled a frilly eyepatch might not be—

"Mr. Malfoy!"

The way he pivoted on his heel to face her, the accursed item still in his raised hand, was purely reactionary. Her shrill tone, along with the furious bloom of color in her cheeks as she saw what he held, told him that yes, this was _exactly_  what he'd thought.

Muggle undergarments.

_Miss Granger's_  Muggle undergarments.

Oh, where the bloody hell was a rock to crawl under when he needed one?

"I . . . I suppose this appears dreadfully inappropriate," he said, looking uncharacteristically helpless as he stared back at her.

Her brows shot up, her glare hardening by the moment.

"In my defense, Miss Granger, I did not realize what they were when I picked them up."

"Oh?" Stepping uncomfortably close to his person, she reached out, snatching the little bundle of fabric from his hand. "So, simply . . . curious were you?"

He swallowed hard, nodding as he watched her move past him and cross the room to toss the troublesome item into one of the open bureau drawers. "Yes, yes. I assure you, I meant no harm nor invasion or privacy; I was simply curious."

"Well, then you should be careful, Mr. Malfoy." She looked over her shoulder at him, speaking as she slammed the drawer shut, "We  _all_  know what curiosity did to that poor cat."

Now it was his turn for his brows to shoot up as he nodded in reply. "Noted."

Turning, she looked around her room. God, she really had been out of sorts the last few weeks. And she was still wearing her clothes from yesterday . . . .

With a sigh, she softened her expression and returned her attention to Lucius. "Um, would you mind stepping out into the corridor for a few moments? And close the door, please?"

The witch didn't have to ask twice, he backpedaled the moment the last word left her lips. Turning his back toward the room, he blindly grabbed the knob to pull the door shut behind him.

Once alone in her room, Hermione let out a breath. Laughing to herself, she shook her head. But then, the scene she'd stumbled on played through her mind again. She felt a strange, unexpected flutter in the pit of her stomach.

"Oh,  _God_ ," she whispered, slapping her fingers against her suddenly, furiously blushing cheeks. "Lucius Malfoy was holding my knickers!"

Sparing a moment to wave her hands near her face in a flimsy, anxious attempt to cool her burning skin, she told herself—adamantly—that she was only in such a state because she was embarrassed.

No different than if she'd caught any other wizard holding a piece of her intimate apparel.

No . . . no different at  _all_ , she affirmed with a nod.

* * *

"Here we go," she said, backing out of her mum's personal closet on her knees, a heavy metal lockbox in her hands.

Her voice—rather shamefully, he told himself in a scolding tone—snapped him to attention just in time. There was a . . . well, there was a  _chance_  that as she'd been crawling about in there, rooting around for the box she now held, his gaze had swept downward. A chance that he had started to wonder if that style of undergarment was actually comfortable for her. Were they all that style?

Did that mean she was wearing something like  _that_ right now?

He was beyond relieved that she'd spoken up before turning around. After that first incident, he really didn't know what she'd make of catching him with his gaze fastened to her bottom.

She shifted in his direction, and her face fell.

For a moment, a flicker of panic wound through him that he'd still done something to give away the focus of his attention a scant few seconds ago, until she said, "Oh, for pity's sake. Please sit down somewhere, Mr. Malfoy. You're making me nervous hovering like that."

Clearing his throat, he nodded. He glanced about the room, before choosing to seat himself on the very corner of her parents' bed, nearest her. The way he was perched didn't look at all comfortable, in fact it appeared incredibly awkward.

Wincing, Hermione shook her head. "I'm not sure that's any better, but all right." Settling cross-legged on the floor in front of him, she set down the box and tapped the lock with her wand.

At the metallic clicking sound that followed, she frowned, shaking her head. "I don't exactly enjoy the thought of invading my parents privacy . . . . God, I don't know if I can even still call them that."

Lucius sighed, his shoulders drooping a little. "They did raise you, did they not?"

She nodded, ignoring the sudden sensation of the tip of her nose stinging and the irritating dampness in her eyes.

"And do you believe they loved you as though you  _were_  their own?"

Again, she nodded, this time blinking a few times to keep those pesky, unwanted tears at bay.

A small, sympathetic half-smile curved one corner of his mouth. "Then of course you should still call them your parents, Miss Granger. To them, you were certainly their child."

Her entire frame seemed to crumble as she shook her head. "But they _lied_  to me."

The wizard shrugged, momentarily flicking his gaze about the room before returning his attention to her. "Perhaps they simply didn't know how to tell you."

Sniffling, she nodded once more. "You're probably right. I only wish I could give you the same assurance about Narcissa's reasons for keeping it from you."

"As do I."

"Does it help at all that she did it to protect a child?"

At the tremor in the young woman's voice, Lucius arched a brow. "You are determined to make yourself cry again, aren't you?"

Hermione snickered in spite of herself. "I know it seems that way, but I actually hate crying. Okay, okay, you're right. Back to this." Clearing her throat, she returned her attention to the box before her.

Lucius observed in silence as she lifted back the lid and started picking through the papers and envelopes inside. She was meticulous in her search, leaving nothing unchecked. But with each envelope she closed and set aside, each paper that yielded no answers, the more she seemed to shrink into herself.

"Perhaps they disposed of the documentation?" he offered after some time, trying to seem helpful, though he knew the suggestion was likely the last thing she wanted to hear.

"Not Doctors Granger." She frowned thoughtfully, though she was starting to see the bottom of the box. "If there were any kind of problem, they'd want to prove I was 'legally' their child. I was . . . . Hullo . . . ."

Shuffling aside the smaller documents atop the faded and dusty manila envelope that seemed the very last thing in the box, she blinked a few times in rapid succession before she pushed herself to turn it over and open it. Easing the paperwork gently from the slit, she read the business address on the first page. "Brubaker Family Agency? Never heard of it. And . . . oh, Lord, the agency fees alone! That's a hefty sum."

Lucius rose from the bed to settle beside her on the floor. Taking the packet from her hands, he continued to look it over for her. "Female child, approximately two years of age. Well, I have trouble believing this next part, as we learned last night, you were a fairly articulate toddler."

Her brows pinched together. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you would've been able to tell your name to whomever was handling your adoption, and Muggles have a way of verifying these things, I assume?"

She barked out a laugh at that. "Of course! They're not cave people, Mr. Malfoy."

"Exactly, yet it says here 'birth name unknown. Notation: Child addresses herself as Jean, possibly of French parentage based on her pronunciation of the name.'"

"Maybe I was traumatized and Jean was all I could remember? It probably didn't help that Muggles wouldn't have access to records of a pure-blood child's birth. Even if they had, I didn't exactly fit Jean-Anne Rosier's description at that time. It doesn't seem _that_  out of the ordinary, yet I can't help but feel like those are odd details to include for a formal legal adoption."

He spoke as he continued overlooking the papers. "At what point did we truly believe this  _was_  legal? But you missed my point. You were a close family relation of a  _known_  Death Eater, and the only surviving member of the British branch of your family aside from Evan. If the Ministry had caught wind of Muggles finding a child with your name, they would have sent someone to investigate the matter and dispose of any information the responsible parties had about you. You have to remember Potter remaining hidden for so long was due to Dumbledore's direct interference."

She sighed, the sound no more than a miserable puff of air. That hadn't occurred to her. "I suppose you're right."

"I do enjoy hearing that. However, this is precisely what you're looking for, is it not? We still don't know what . . . ." He stopped cold, his grey eyes widening a little.

Hermione very much did not like that. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"This reads that you were brought to the agency as an  _abandoned_  child. Whereabouts of parents or other family members unknown."

"What?" Unable to help herself, she snatched the papers from his hands to read the words for herself. Furrowing her brow, she shook her head. "That doesn't seem to make sense. Of all the rubbish reasons they could've put on there, why abandonment? I mean, all right, how I ended up out of the care of whoever was seeing me to my relatives in the first place _is_  a mystery, for sure. But . . . you were there last night, you saw how much Narcissa cared for me, and we both know she shared your distaste for Muggles. She would  _never_  have entrusted me to anyone she thought might do something like give me to Muggles, or leave me on my own. She would've made certain that I was  _safely_  on my way."

He shook his head, his expression pensive. "I knew she'd arranged transport for you, but that was the extent of my knowledge and the last I'd heard of you. I don't believe your uncle knew anything had gone wrong, either. He was in Azkaban following the First War, and your family likely would have avoided contact with him to prevent seeming as though they were in collusion with a war criminal. Naturally, I assumed you arrived in France and that Narcissa simply had no desire to discuss the matter because she wanted to focus her motherly attention on Draco. I had no idea until last night that she'd hidden you in plain sight before sending you away, let alone that she'd been so elaborate about it. It's stupidly evident _something_  occurred and that it must've happened while you were in-transit. Obviously,  _whatever_  transpired, you didn't make it very far." His voice was hollow, and Hermione couldn't say she blamed him.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she tried her best to reason out what had probably gone on. "So, we've known this whole time things didn't go as planned, whatever that plan was. There must've been an accident, something that was upsetting enough that I couldn't fully recall my own name. And I was just . . . what? I was left alone and snatched up by some random passerby? My family, the ones who were expecting me, they probably contacted Narcissa. Children don't just go missing, Mr. Malfoy. People  _take_  them, things  _happen_  to them." She pursed her lips, blinking hard. "The Rosiers likely thought I died as a result of whatever went wrong. Narcissa must've believed Jean-Anne was dead all this time. She probably felt responsible. For seventeen years she was carrying that weight with her; that might've been why she couldn't talk about what happened."

"Miss Granger?"

"Hmm?" She lifted her gaze to meet his.

"You're crying."

Granting him a trembly-lipped grin, she laughed. "So are you."

Lucius gave himself a shake as he touched his fingers to his skin. Certain enough, a tear had rolled down his cheek.

"Yes, well," he said with a clearing of his throat as he wiped at his face with the corner of his cloak, "I will not tell anyone if you won't."

Nodding, she wiped at her own tears half-heartedly. "Your secret is safe with me."

"Well, Miss Granger, you have the proof you were adopted, though I hardly think you needed it for more than peace of mind. What next?"

A lopsided frown tugged at her lips. "These are the sort of answers that lead to more questions. I suppose I could go find the Grangers, break the charm on their memories—"

"You intend to—?"

Hermione cut him off with a shocked gasp. "Of course not!" They both understood memory charms enough—more than enough, actually—to know the only way to break them was through intense torture. She should hope he would not think she was suggesting any such thing. She might be angry with them, but good Lord.

After a moment of letting her nerves settle from the very thought, she put the documents back in their envelope. "I placed a  _modified_  charm on them, one that can be broken with a simple—but  _specific_ —disenchantment incantation. It's not something anyone could simply trip over or say by accident. But I don't think I want to do that. I'm furious with them for keeping this from me, but . . . you're right. They loved me, I know they did. It's obvious my adoption was a sham. There's every chance these people conned the Grangers to squeeze those so-called agency fees out of them, but if that's not what happened? If they actually knew and allowed this?"

Lucius remained silent, perfectly aware she was speaking rhetorically.

She waved the bulky envelope in display. "Or they found me and drew up these documents, themselves, to cover their tracks? I'm not sure I want to know that. It'll destroy everything I remember about my time with them. I love the memories I have with them. I'd rather remember them _that_  way by imagining they had no idea I was basically stolen and sold to them, than have my last memory of my parents be some sad revelation I really don't want to hear."

He nodded, his expression sympathetic. Though, he couldn't truly say he understood how she was feeling, so he supposed feigned sympathy, or attempted sympathy, perhaps, was as much as it could be called. "So I ask again, what next?"

Pulling herself to sit up straight, she squared her shoulders and held up the agency paperwork. "Next? We see what we can find out about this Brubaker Agency."

Climbing to his feet, he offered her a hand up. "Lead the way."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on recent internet history: Yes, in 1998, some libraries had internet access available, though this was not true for all of them. For the sake of this story, it is assumed that the library in which Hermione and Lucius conduct their research is one such place.
> 
> Obscure history note: the 'Bella in the Wych Elm' incident is an actual unsolved murder case from the 1940s. Of course, like Jack the Ripper, there's a bunch of 'may have been solved' theories out there, should anyone choose to check out the creepy case for themselves.

**Chapter Eight**

Hermione stared at the building that matched the address listed within the packet for the so-called Brubaker Family Agency. She didn't suppose she was very shocked to note streams of soft orange-yellow light from the late afternoon sun peeking through otherwise empty windows, refracted here and there, wherever the illumination glinted off of the shattered glass still stuck in the panes.

The hollow edifice didn't just look empty. It looked . . .  _lifeless_.

She'd expected something like this. She'd expected the address to lead her to a house, occupied by perfectly innocent Muggles who'd look at her like she'd gone 'round the bend if she asked about some adoption agency that shared their house number. Or a building of some other business, entirely. Perhaps even an empty lot.

Despite bracing herself for all manner of dead end, she could feel frustrated tears gathering in her eyes and the way her bottom lip pulled into an angry version of a pout as though of its own volition.

"Can't say I'm terribly surprised," Lucius said, uttering a weighted sigh.

"There's . . . there's one other thing we can try before calling it quits and checking if that potion is still where Mrs. Malfoy left it."

He turned his head to observe her as his brows climbed his forehead ever so slightly.

Returning his look, she forced a grin. "The library."

* * *

They both did novel jobs of ignoring the strange looks Lucius got from the Muggles in the library that evening. Hermione had told him they might think he was just eccentric, which he found a touch insulting . . . until she elaborated to point out that to most Muggles, thinking one was 'eccentric' was another way of calling a person of  _wealth and high social standing_ mad. Then he seemed to not quite mind so much.

Miss Granger—drat, he was going to have to stop calling her that, wasn't he? She had yet to comment on it, so he supposed he would revisit that notion if and when she made a fuss about it—sat at the odd Muggle machine, turning a little knob to feed film past the too-bright screen. "You see, we already know that Jean-Anne—or, I—vanished from the Wizarding world and that was the last heard on the matter. You wouldn't be so in the dark if anything considered 'newsworthy' had been turned up in connection with my disappearance."

He wasn't completely lost. The film was clearly articles from a Muggle newspaper—the print looked very similar to that in The Daily Prophet, only without the flourish. "And you think, somehow, Muggles reported on the subject?"

"Not in so specific a sense," she said, her chestnut eyes narrowing as she skimmed the screen. Lucius had been gracious enough to provide her with a series of dates that might've been the same day they'd glimpsed in the penseive. Days that followed the Rosiers' funeral, when Narcissa had vanished for hours without much explanation, and after which Jean-Anne had never again been seen or heard from. "However, we may find something, some little side-article, or something from a police ledger, that talks about an unidentified toddler found abandoned."

"I see."

She leaned closer to the screen, her eyes narrowing further, still. "It probably wouldn't have been big news, but maybe something."

Lucius nodded, idly running the tip of his finger over the cap of one of the film cylinders. "If . . . ." One of his brows flicked upward for the briefest second as he shrugged. "If you show me how to use one of these blasted machines, I could help you search."

Hermione's entire frame froze as his words sank in. Slowly— _very_  slowly—she turned her head to look up at him. "You'd . . . you'd deign to use a Muggle contraption to assist me?"

With a sigh, he dropped his weight quite heavily into the seat in front of the next machine over. "Though I admit you and I make a strange partnership, Miss Granger, you should bear in mind that _I_  am as invested in getting to the bottom of whatever happened all those years ago as you are. As such," he paused, gesturing toward the screen in front of him, "if use of a Muggle contraption will aid our cause, then so be it."

She bit her lip on a grin. Getting up from her seat, she rounded the second machine and set it up for him. The entire while, she thought she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. She ignored the sensation.

Just as surely as she ignored the unexpected feel of butterflies in her stomach as his hand brushed hers when she guided him to grasp the knob on the side.

As she hurried back to her own machine, Hermione missed, entirely, the way he followed her movements with a sidelong glance. Missed, entirely, the way he seemed to give himself a shake before focusing his attention on the illuminated newsprint before him.

Time ticked past, and her heart sank deeper with every turn of the knob that yielded nothing, with every footfall behind them that signaled more people drifting out the doors. Soon, it seemed to be only the two of them and the librarians. She found herself bracing all over again, this time for someone to come over and shoo them out before closing.

"In the early morning hours of the 23rd of September, a child was found wandering a road just outside Hagley Wood." Lucius' voice dragged her from her miserable loop of thoughts.

She shot out of her seat, all but plastering herself against his back in her attempt to read the article over his shoulder. He tried very hard not to jump as he found her face suddenly so very close to his.

Lucius tried to tell himself he wasn't unsettled by the feel of her breath on his skin as she picked up reading where he'd left off. "The girl, assumed to be two years old, was in a state of disorientation, but seemed otherwise unharmed. No one in the area reported a missing child, nor were there any campers in the vicinity. Questions remain about the child's identity, though the hiker who found her, one . . . Reginald  _Brubaker_  . . . ." Hermione paused to square her jaw. "Insists there were no cars on the road that morning, either, leaving yet more questions as to where she came from."

She scanned the rest of the page, shaking her head. "That's it?"

He shrugged, trying for a sympathetic tone, and—as always—was not entirely certain he succeeded in the effort. "It would appear so. It's not a coincidence the man who found you has the same name as that from your parents paperwork."

Hermione backed toward her own seat and fell into it in a numb movement of limbs. "That 'hiker' was probably a conman. Reported finding me, just in case there would be trouble, and then when no one came forward, whisked me away and just . . . just  _sold_  me to my parents under the guise of an adoption."

"We don't know that's what happened. I assume Muggle authorities don't simply allow random hikers to whisk children away. If your discovery was reported, perhaps there's more to it than that?"

"Perhaps. But there's still another question."

Lucius nodded, squinting at the screen as though the answers might appear there. "How on earth did you end up in Hagley Wood?"

"Exactly. If I was being taken to France, that area is much too far out of the way from Wiltshire for that kind of detour to make any sense. Though, I do feel like I've heard about that area before . . . ."

Hermione was out of her seat and heading to another desk before Lucius even realized she was moving. Holding back an exasperated eye-roll—they were working together, after all, the least she could do was be more forthcoming—he rose and followed. It was like tagging along after a bookish rabbit.

"And we are doing what, now?"

"This, Mr. Malfoy," she said in a brisk tone as she typed in some words, "is a Muggle convention known as the internet. It is an electronic, digital, connection between different places and sources of information in the world. I didn't start with this in regard to the day I might've vanished, because I assumed—and we saw that I was correct—that the article was so obscure, it wouldn't necessarily have made it into any worthwhile searches."

His gaze shot from the screen to her face, and back. He wasn't entirely sure he'd kept up with everything that had just tumbled from her lips, but he nodded just the same.

"First, we look for  _Reginald Brubaker_  . . . ." Her shoulders drooped at the result and, without realizing, her agitation forced a word she would not typically use out of her. "Fucking figures. Obituary from last year. Natural causes, no family to speak of . . . mystery as to how he came into his wealth, left to charities upon his death. There's no mention of any sort of family agency in his name. Bastard. Mysterious wealth? All  _that_  tells me is that I wasn't the only 'abandoned' child he stumbled across."

"Logic would seem to dictate that perhaps you were the first, which gave him an idea. I believe making charitable donations with the wealth accumulated from supplying unwitting families with stolen children would've stymied any negative opinions or accusations of wrongdoing, yes?"

Sighing, she nodded. "Likely. Criminals tend to be guarded and secretive. If he was open about . . . oh, who bloody  _cares_? I was snatched up and sold, and the person who did it is dead and gone. No answers to be found down that route."

"If only we knew who Narcissa was supposed to have handed you off to for your journey to France . . . ."

Marshaling her focus—Brubaker was a literal dead end, though she was braced enough for that to not be a surprise that she found herself able to shake off that particular disappointment—she returned her attention to the screen. "We don't know who, but we know where I was found."

_Hagley Wood._

She clicked on the first option that popped up—the others below all looked like reiterations of the same information visible in the first, anyway—and shook her head as she skimmed the words on the screen. "In 1943, the remains of a woman's body were found stuffed into the trunk of a tree—"

" _What?"_  Lucius asked, horrified by the mental image, alone.

Hermione didn't like that she felt the itchy shiver of goosebumps rising along her arms. "It's the only article that comes up in connection with the area. And there's more. Some distance away, a bundle of clothes, presumably the victim's, were found, along with a . . . oh, a severed left hand, also presumably the victim's, as the body was intact with the exception of one of its hands."

"I have seen many things in my time, but I do believe I'm going to be ill."

The witch seemed in a bit of a daze, however, as she continued on like she hadn't even heard him. "Though the discovery was not widely reported at the time, authorities came to suspect someone in the area knew of the grisly circumstances, as one year later, graffiti appeared asking . . .  _Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?_  The connection of the name Bella is unclear, as the victim remains unidentified, however, the tree at the scene was, in fact, a wych elm. Taffeta found stuffed in the victim's mouth suggested to investigators that the cause of death was suffocation. Though a motive could not be determined from evidence on the scene, the state of the body suggests a ritual act, possibly connected with occult practices."

Noting the cloudy look in her eyes and the odd tone in her voice, Lucius once more shot his gaze from her to the information, and back. Placing his hands over hers, he pulled her away from the machine. "That's enough of that, now, Miss Granger."

Hermione gave herself a shake, trying to get her bearings. "I'm sorry, I don't . . . . I don't know what came over me. There's no way that has any connection to whatever happened to me, I mean, it was nearly forty years before I was there. Even saying that, though, there's this weird feeling in my gut I can't quite explain."

Again, he looked toward the screen before dropping his attention to her hands clasped in his. "If the Muggle authorities were correct, and it was some sort of ritual, then chances are that was not the first or last time that happened, simply that  _that_ was the only time it was discovered."

Realization dawning, she felt the tip of her nose sting and her eyes well up. "You . . . you're suggesting that whoever was escorting me—"

"I'm suggesting that perhaps, for whatever reason you and your escort were in that area, you might've stumbled across something that was not meant for  _anyone_  to see."

Her brow furrowed. "And they were killed for it, while I was let go because I was so young?"

Swallowing hard, he shook his head. "We can hope that's how it happened," he said, letting the possibility that she'd simply gotten lucky and managed to slip away hang unspoken in the air between them.

"I think . . . I think we need to contact the Rosier family in France, see if they knew who was supposed to deliver me to them."

Nodding, Lucius—ever the gentleman—kept one hand on hers as he half-turned, slipping his other arm around her shoulders. "You've had a long day, Miss Granger. We can send an owl first thing in the morning, if you wish, and then set out in search of that potion. There's much to consider about your family and your situation, and it can _all_  wait for tomorrow. For now, though, you should probably rest. Let's get you home, shall we?"

She dug her heels in at the mention of home. The Granger house no longer felt like home. In fact, she wasn't sure anywhere felt like home just now. "No," she said, her voice hollow. "I can't . . . I don't want to go there again. That place feels wrong, now." Again, she longed to run to Harry and Ron, but the fear of them treating her differently . . . of not understanding what she was going through . . . .

"I feel like I've got nowhere to go."

Though he felt he would regret it later, he found himself offering, "You are welcome to the guest room you used last night, for as long as you feel you need it."

Hermione met his gaze, pretending that she didn't notice the faint wash of color dusting his fair cheeks. Pretending that she didn't again feel the brush of butterfly wings in her stomach at the thought of staying at Malfoy Manor— _for as long as she felt she needed it._

Despite all her pretending, she found herself nodding as she once more allowed him to guide her out into the cool, quiet night air.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

She'd conceded to stop by her Muggle home for a brief few seconds to pack some things. Lord knew how long she might feel a desire to not return there.

All that night, she'd had the most awful dreams. In the too-vivid imaginings, she was clad in her nightdress, as she'd been when she'd fallen asleep in her borrowed room in Malfoy Manor.

_. . . Running through some unfamiliar, night-darkened forest as half-skeletal bodies pulled themselves from hollowed-out tree trunks and reached for her . . . ._

_She'd tripped and fallen, the ground covered in a scattering of bony, dismembered hands, the edges of their white, claw-like fingers scraping at her skin as she scrambled to her feet. The sounds of the bones cracking and crunching beneath her footfalls seemed to echo in her ears as she stumbled forward, as fast as her legs would carry her. Her bare soles were strangely numb to the sensation of all that cracking and crunching under her, yet the noise seem to grate and thrum through her entire body with every step._

_But she couldn't stop. She knew. She couldn't stop._

_Because_ he _was back there._

"Miss Granger!"

She snapped to her senses, aware of a horrified shriek meeting her ears and hands gripping her shoulders. As she opened her eyes, she found a very concerned-seeming Lucius Malfoy seated before her. Another heartbeat—painfully slow and strained—passed before she realized that awful noise was coming from her!

A shivering breath escaped her as the sound died on her lips. Swallowing hard, she tried to force a calm over herself and get her bearings. She was in Malfoy Manor . . . . Lucius Malfoy was sitting on the edge of her bed . . . in his nightclothes . . . .

And she'd been screaming . . . why'd she been . . . ? Remembering her awful nightmare kicked off a horrible twisting of nausea and she trembled in his hold as she closed her eyes against the feeling.

"What's the matter? Should I call for a Healer?"

She shook her head. Perhaps it was stubborn of her, but the last thing she needed was for some Healer to see Wizarding Britain's most famous Muggleborn at Malfoy Manor—in her nightdress—at this hour. Bloody rumor mill, she couldn't bear for Harry and Ron to hear about what she was going through from anyone but her.

"I'm . . . I'll be fine, I just had a nightmare."

"I should say so," he agreed, his grey eyes wide as he nodded.

Opening her eyes, she met his gaze and frowned, even as she caught her breath. "I'm sorry I woke you."

He shrugged. "Starting to get used to being dragged from a pleasant slumber by your bellowing, I should think."

"Oy! Rude!" Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his hands. Even so, she couldn't help a snicker at his words.

When she quieted, he gave her a stern look. "You're certain you're all right?"

She nodded as she swiped her hands across her face. "Yes. Just . . . everything we learned at the library . . . it's been wreaking havoc on my subconscious, is all."

"Understandable. Try to get some rest, we have yet more work before us in the morning."

Hermione frowned, even as she allowed him to ease her back onto the bed. "You sure do know how to settle a witch's mind, you know that?"

Lucius uttered a scoffing sound as he shook his head. "Funny, as I understand it, you're not happy unless you're what is the term? A busy little bee?"

With an unhappy mumble, she swatted at his hands. Though it seemed she was drifting back to sleep within mere seconds.

"Goodnight, again, Miss Granger." Yet, it was only now that he relinquished his grasp on her shoulders.

Already, he could hear her soft snores as he stood and turned to face the doorway. And nearly jumped to find Draco lingering there. Well, he certainly had underestimated his son's ability to  _lurk_ silently.

"She okay?"

Lucius nodded, crossing the room to slip out the door and move past the young man. "Fine. Nightmare is all."

"Hate to see the thing that scares that one," the younger wizard muttered under his breath.

He kept to himself that he'd caught the last few moment of their interaction. Turning his head, he watched as Father disappeared into his own bedroom down the corridor. He wondered at that touch . . . . Tearing his gaze from his father's door, he looked back to the sleeping witch in the bed.

As he reached for the knob to pull her door closed, he frowned, trying to tell himself he was imagining things. After all, if Father and Granger hadn't really noticed how oddly _intimate_  that gesture was—the man pushing her down against her pillow like that—then perhaps he was reading too much into this.

Or, perhaps, _they_  were the ones not reading into this enough.

* * *

"Draco, get your arse back in here!"

The younger wizard cringed and his father's brows shot up his forehead. Lucius turned a curious gaze on his son.

"She was so focused, I honestly thought she hadn't even seen me slip out."

The kitchen door swung open, and there she stood. An impressive scowl marred her features as she folded her arms and glared at him. "Honestly, you said one of _you_  should learn to cook a proper breakfast. I'm not a bloody housekeeper, and I've got a lot of my own worries to deal with today. Let's _go_."

Lucius hid a snicker, returning his attention to the list he was sorting on some parchment before him as the witch disappeared back into the kitchen.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Draco said in hollow whisper, "She's a nightmare."

Father waved his free hand dismissively in the direction of the door. "Yes, well, she probably just needs something menial to concentrate on after last night. Get in there before she starts hollering, again."

His entire frame seeming to bow, Draco turned away. Every move reluctant, he dragged himself back into the kitchen.

* * *

It was just as well, Hermione thought, that the younger Malfoy had been the one she was stuck with in the kitchen. Yes, she had strangely grown quite close with Lucius during this ordeal, but that's what it was, wasn't it?  _Strange._ She felt a bit of anxiety—yes, yes, anxiety, not butterflies, preposterous thinking  _that_ was—at the idea of having some close quarters task with the elder of the two wizards.

They'd shared information and secrets and discoveries . . . and that moment he'd found her damn knickers. The last thing she could really manage right now would be the accidental touches and closeness that naturally occurred when undertaking a task like teaching one to cook.

He was only helping because he needed closure about what Narcissa had hid from him. She didn't need to misread into the actions of a widower who was twenty years older than her!

Draco looked up from what he was doing, catching her thoughtful expression. "This is all a bit much, isn't it? New name, new family?"

"New blood status?"

He mustered up a sheepish grin. "You said it, not me."

Hermione allowed herself a laugh as she looked out the window. "I don't even know where to start, to be honest. I think we need to talk to the Ministry, you know? Find some way to officially confirm my identity. I still haven't told Harry and Ron. God. I don't even know how they'll—"

"I can't believe you're taking the news about your father so calmly, to be honest. Weasel-bee's probably going to lose his bloody mind over it."

She returned her attention to him. He was distracted with his task. "You think Ron's going to lose him mind over this?"

Draco shrugged. "I've seen the way that poor sod looks at you, Granger. It's going to rip his heart out to find out you're his cousin."

* * *

_"WHAT?!"_

Lucius all but jumped straight to his feet at her shrill scream tearing through the house. Rolling his eyes—it was  _much_  too early for so much fuss—he set down his quill and stalked toward the kitchen door.

Poking his head into the kitchen, he spied a very confused looking Draco and a visibly shocked Miss Granger. He stepped inside, though something told him that perhaps he would do well to stay far away from the young witch.

The moment he stood fully inside the kitchen, he realized that 'something' was right, after all. Her gaze snapped up, locking on him and her expression shifted in a blink from shocked to angry.

"My father was Mr. Weasley's brother?" She shook her head, her hands clenched into trembling fists at her sides. In the backdrop, Draco noticed the smell of burning food and hurried to turn off the burners. "I thought I was a Rosier! How is this even  _possible_?"

Holding up one hand in a placating gesture, Lucius kept his face carefully blank. He'd truly not meant to omit her father's true lineage from her, simply that so much had happened every time they delved into her past even a little that before he realized it, they'd reached  _this_  point and he still hadn't mentioned it.

_Bother._

His shoulders drooping, he pinched tiredly between his brows with his free hand as he launched into the explanation of why her name was Rosier rather than Weasley. Somehow, in the span of his statements, she'd gone from angry, back to shocked, and then to something that resembled heartbroken.

Lucius glanced at Draco, but his son could only offer a befuddled shrug at her very obvious change in demeanor.

She slumped backward against the kitchen counter as she shook her head. Her dark-eyed gaze darted about the room, though she didn't seem to register anything her attention landed on. "My . . . my real father _hated_  Muggles?"

"I . . . don't know that he hated them," Lucius tried, his tone reasonable as he shrugged. "Only that he felt it was wrong for Wizarding kind to embrace Muggle ways."

"Muggles raised me, though, they . . . they made me who I am."

"Miss Granger, you recall you were quite livid with those very same Muggles just yesterday?"

Burying her face in her hands a moment, she let out a frustrated groan. "You were the one who talked me out of being furious with them, remember?"

"Vividly, in fact."

"My parents weren't my parents, my real parents would never have even entered the same room as them . . . . Were . . . were Lisette and Alistair even good people, at all?"

Her tear-broken voice actually stung him. Catching Draco's gaze, he jutted his chin toward the door. He was not at all surprised when his son mouthed the words  _thank you_ , and hurried from the room on quiet footfalls with literally not even a second of hesitation.

Holding back a sigh, he moved toward her. For the . . . oh, he'd lost track of what number of times it made this, but once more, he braced his hands on her shoulders.

Merlin help him that when she opened those large chestnut eyes of hers to meet his gaze, they glimmered with unshed tears. "I know how you feel about pure-bloods, and it is not as though you are without cause."

Hermione was aware she probably looked so very childlike right now, staring up at him as she chewed at her lower lip to keep from uttering any sad noises. As she felt like crumbling on the spot and it seemed the only thing keeping her standing was his gentle grip on her shoulders.

"You recall what Narcissa said to that very little version of you in your memories when you asked if the people your parents wanted to keep you from were bad people?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "That they were simply people who believe that those like my mother and father were bad because of what _they_  believe."

The delicate skin beneath his eyes crinkled as he narrowed them thoughtfully at her. "You can't imagine how very much your parents loved you. Whatever they thought, however, doesn't matter, because it doesn't change the woman you've grown into. It doesn't take away from the experiences that built you into who you are now."

"So you say," she whispered, her voice shaking a bit, "but it feels different to know the person who were raised to believe you were is only some—some surface image. That you could go through . . .  _all_  these things I've been through that I thought taught me everything I could know about myself, only to realize there was this entire other part of who I am that I didn't even know."

"I don't think anyone who's not been exactly where you are right now can fully understand how you feel. It's a burden you bear alone, but . . . if you feel you are at your breaking point, we needn't pursue this any further."

She blinked rapidly a few times, as though not comprehending his words. "What?"

Lucius' brows pinched together. "No one outside of these walls knows about what we've learned of your lineage. If you so wish, no one else ever need know. I can pursue Narcissa's involvement in Jean-Anne Rosier's disappearance on my own, and you can go back to being who you thought you were before I showed you those pictures."

"But I can't." Her voice broke a little on that last word. "That would be too selfish, I'd never forgive myself. The Rosiers believe a little girl in their family died, and that's horrible. I can't steal from them the chance to know that wasn't what really happened. And Mr. Weasley? He's always been so kind to me. He didn't even know he had a niece, at all, from what you've told me. He needs to know."

"Of course," he said, nodding. "You're absolutely correct, but still, the truth remains it is an option you have. Although . . . knowing who you really are might help to heal some of the bad blood between our families."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "I know you and Mr. Weasley have never gotten along, but how can I—?"

"The reason he and I have always been at one another's throats was because . . . we blamed each other for your father's death. I, because I felt if Arthur had joined Alistair, he'd have been there by his brother's side to protect him, and Arthur because he knew  _I_ encouraged Alistair to come to the Dark Lord's service. But this Second War . . . with all the wounds left in its wake, perhaps it  _is_  time to let those older wounds heal."

"And you think helping me set history to rights could do that?"

She'd calmed, and he found himself relaxing almost reflexively. How odd. "I think it could be a start."

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth ever so slightly.

He gave her a suspicious look. "What?"

"I just never thought you'd be the person settling my nerves about anything."

Lucius snickered. "That would make two of us."

Her face fell as she realized his hands were still on her. At some point during their discussion, they'd slid down, and now his fingers circled her upper arms. She felt acutely aware of his breath whispering over her cheeks as he exhaled. Acutely aware of the way his expression shifted to mirror hers.

She could swear they were drifting closer together.

"This is dangerous territory," he said softly, visibly forcing himself to straighten up, though she found herself oddly pleased that it seemed such a pained and reluctant effort.

Swallowing hard, she nodded as he let his hands slip from her arms, at last. "I'll forget that just happened if you will."

"If I'm to be wholly honest," he said as he turned away. Lucius continued, speaking over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "I do believe that for once you've managed to ask too much of me, Miss Granger."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"What're you doing?"

Hermione jumped at the sound of Draco's voice drifting in through the door of her borrowed room. Whirling on her heel, she tugged her half-packed overnight bag behind her back.

"What? Nothing."

Walking in, he carefully rounded the bed, aware of the witch wincing as she turned to follow his movement. "Were you just going to pack up and leave without saying a word to anyone?"

She cleared her throat, ringing her hands as she shrugged. "Well, not exactly. I just had this . . . this thought that perhaps things would be easier if I just—"

"No," Draco said, rushing to ensure she couldn't get another word in. "It's not that you were trying to leave without saying a word to 'anyone.' You were trying to leave without saying a word to my father."

Shutting her eyes tight at the statement—because it most certainly had not been a question—she uttered an unattractive groaning sound. She didn't need his entirely too observant words to drag what had happened downstairs in the kitchen a short while ago before her mind's eye. No, no. With the way remembering seemed in danger of catching her breath in her throat and warmed her skin just a little while sending a shiver dancing across her skin, forgetting  _at all_  didn't seem likely. The scene was firmly lodged there and seemed to have little chance of budging any time soon.

Opening her eyes, she found Draco staring at her expectantly. His brows high on his forehead, his lips were pursed and his arms folded across his chest. She thought maybe if she gave him another moment or two, he'd start tapping his foot.

Letting out a sigh, she slumped a little. "I . . . I just can't be here right now."

"Do you still want to get to the bottom of this Jean-Anne mess?"

"Well, yes," she answered without a moment's thought.

"And do you believe my father is intent on helping you do that?"

"Of course." Odd how, before this, she wouldn't have had faith in Lucius Malfoy for anything. Now he seemed like a lifeline, but then that was the problem, wasn't it?

"Then go get some air. Take a walk, go do . . . whatever it is Muggleborns do for fun. Give yourself a break from what's been happening in your world and then come back, but don't _leave_."

Her brow furrowing, she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "What do you even care?"

Oh, he was  _not_  answering that! He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he'd developed a bit of a soft spot where she was concerned the moment she offered to come home and help him with Father. She couldn't have known what she might be walking into—for all either of them had known at the time, they could've been walking in to find Father had off'ed himself—yet she'd ventured with him to a place where she'd been literally tortured.

He didn't think he'd ever be able to put into words how much he felt he owed her for that. Well, even if he managed it, she probably wouldn't believe him based on their less-than-sunny history.

With a sigh of his own, Draco took a seat not far from her, his hands clasped before him and his expression thoughtful. "Look. You're going through something right now that no one out there can really relate to. Something that I know you think your friends might see you differently for, which is even worse, because it's nothing you've done wrong. This is probably the one place where no one's going to judge you for a thing that was done _to_  you when you were a bloody toddler."

Hermione laughed softly. Her gaze on the floor, she shook her head. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but you're right. Anything else, I'd have run to Ron and Harry first thing, but this . . . ? I just knew in my gut they might look at me as though I'm not the girl they've known all these years, and I don't think I can bear that. Not with everything else. Your father was even making a list of steps to take in this. Find the potion, take it and the pensieved memory to the Ministry. Have my identity confirmed. Sort necessary documentation. Contact the Rosiers in France. Because, he feels it would do well for our reaching out to them to have the assurance that I am who we say I am. And somewhere in the midst of all that, I have to tell Harry and Ron that Hermione Granger never really existed, oh, and by the way, Ron, the girl you nearly kissed is your blood relation!"

He rolled his eyes as he choked out a scoffing sound, choosing to ignore that last part, as it was hardly as though the Wizarding world _hadn't_  seen inter-family relationships before. "Are you always this much of a twit? Of course Hermione Granger existed! I know you feel like you've lost something because you were born to a different life. But you could try looking at this like you've gained something. No matter what else, you spent the last sixteen years being Hermione Granger. For whatever that means, she _is_  a part of Jean-Anne Rosier."

Turning her head, she cast him a sidelong glance—a markedly irritated sidelong glance. "When did you get so wise?"

"Well, when Hermione Granger starts acting like an idiot, someone has to pick up the slack."

Laughing in spite of herself, she shook her head once more. "It does feel good to be somewhere I'm not being judged for things beyond my control. Never in a million years would've imagined that place would be _here_."

"Pretty sure that makes two of us." He nodded in thought. "Father really made a list?"

She gave a nod of her own, then. "Yeah. Can't imagine how I'm going to break it to Harry and Ron that I've confided in the Malfoys about my problems."

"To be fair, we were the ones who sort of alerted you to the problems you're having now."

"Suppose that's true," she said with another nod. "Your father actually told me that if I wanted, he would pretend that we never realized I'm Jean-Anne."

Draco's brows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hair. "He did?"

"And I told him that simply would not do. There are still people out there convinced they lost this little girl, when I was there all along, just no one knew where to look for me."

"Well, I must say that's something I'd never have—"

"But it's not really any of that," she said abruptly. God, she couldn't believe she was going to tell this to Draco Malfoy, but she needed to talk to someone, and this was another thing Harry and Ron would look at her differently for. "I don't know how else to say this, but . . . something sort of . . . almost  _happened_  between your father and me."

Bracing one elbow on his knee, he pinched tiredly between his brows. "When was this?"

"This morning, down in the kitchen after—after you walked away."

"Just now? Are you serious? In my kitchen where the food I eat is kept?"

Her brown eyes shooting wide, she turned fully to look at him. "What are you going on about?" Realizing instantly what would have him sounding so perturbed over the idea—since simply the idea of her and his father didn't seem to ruffle him very much, but oh no, the thought of people shagging in his kitchen, the horror!—she gasped and swatted at his arm. "Nothing like that! God, who's the one being a twit now? I said something _almost_  happened. And it was . . . it just seemed like perhaps we were going to kiss."

Draco winced. The idea of his father kissing  _anyone_ wasn't exactly comfortable, he would stay away from tacking on the more troubling factors just now. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. From the conversation that took place, it was pretty clear he was aware something could've happened. Dangerous territory, he said." She let it go  _un_ said that Lucius had mentioned that he might not be able to forget that it had happened. "I'm his son's former classmate, and your mother—his wife—has been gone only a few weeks! What is wrong with _me_  that I'd even entertain such a notion?"

Well, so much for him staying away from tacking on the more troubling factors if she was going to go ahead and do that herself. Pressing his palms against his forehead, he groaned. "Why couldn't some other Death Eater family have defected during the Battle of Hogwarts so this could all be  _their_ problem?"

Hermione uttered a derisive snicker. "Because we are just not that lucky."

He let his hands drop as he cast a lethal glare at the ceiling, echoing her mirthless sound. "You're probably right. Look, I'm not going to pretend I'm all right with . . . whatever. But I am going to say that maybe you need to take a step back and look at the situation from a different angle. Before these last few weeks, we had all been through hell just trying to survive. And then burying our dead, coping with that pain. Then,  _just_  when it seemed there was an end, you and Father, both, find more shit to dig yourselves out of—"

"Lovely mental picture, that." She crinkled her nose in distaste.

"Oh, shut it, I'm going somewhere with this. These 'last few weeks', you've been each other's anchor through this, without even meaning to. It's been a short time, but even I can see you two have bonded over what you've been through."

"Yesterday we . . . yesterday we learned I was sold by a conman to the Grangers and was initially found wandering the road near a fifty year old murder scene."

Draco's face fell as he looked at her. "Dear God. Is nothing in your life simple?"

The witch shrugged. "Apparently not."

"Okay." He nodded. "But that's sort of my point. When you go through something with someone, it's like . . . it's a little like time doesn't matter. And that's not to say that this is something that would actually come about, or even last, but you're both dealing with so much right now, maybe . . . ." He looked like he was going to be ill as he forced himself to go on. "Maybe when everything is settled down and your life becomes as normal as it can be, and Father has closure, maybe you'll find you're no more than friends."

"I can't believe you're talking so calmly about this."

"As previously stated, that makes two of us." The wizard ran his hands down his face. "Look, at the moment, Father's going to be beside himself enough that that happened. I pretty sure no matter what acknowledgment he gave it at the time, he'll be willing to put it aside until he's more sure of what he's really feeling."

Hermione watched Draco in silence for a long while, still wildly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, though it was helpful to note that he was just as uncomfortable. "You're sure?" The idea of staying here—here where they knew the truth about her, where they weren't judging her, where they were letting her decisions about what to do next be hers, alone—was something she liked. And something she thought she could manage, so long as she and Lucius didn't end up back in  _dangerous territory_  any time soon.

Shrugging, he shook his head. "Not positive, but pretty sure, yeah. Honestly? I think it's jarring for him to realize he could have feelings like that toward anyone, right now. The person he thought he was going to spend his entire life with is gone. Maybe he believed that the thought of even wanting to would be gone, too. But he's a pragmatist above all else. Can't help it, really. I think the moment he came to grips with Mother's death, he was able to start picking up the pieces and move on, even if he didn't recognize it, himself. And, maybe like you, he's hung up on the actual time that has passed. Counting the number of days that have gone by while disregarding the weight of the things you've been through together."

Hermione's brows shot up at the way he scowled, then. "Merlin," he said in a self-deprecating mutter of sound. "Do I  _not_ know when to shut up?"

"You're right, though." She nodded, a pensive expression shading her features. "I may not want to think about it, but we are each dealing with our own bit of madness right now. I do want to stay. And whatever does or doesn't happen as time goes on, it won't do anyone any favors if I run away."

Once more, Draco looked a bit green as he said, "Now that I'm thinking on it, it might've done me a favor."

* * *

Lucius didn't look up from the work before him as Draco entered the study. The younger wizard made a bee line for the decanter of brandy on the coffee table.

"You convinced her to stay?"

Pouring himself a glass, Draco upended it and winced before answering. "Yes. How did you know she was going try to leave?"

Still, Lucius did not look up, but the scratching of his quill against the parchment quieted. He didn't _know_ , not for certain. He'd hoped to find he'd been wrong and misjudged what her response to the earlier incident would be. He could still feel the brush of her breath against his skin, the soft press of her skin beneath his hands as he held her arms.

Sighing through his nostrils, Lucius closed his eyes. With a shake of his head, he murmured, "Because, were I in her place, it's precisely what I would've done."


End file.
